Distanced from the rest of the party, Camille stood nonchalantly on red stiletto “come-fuck-me” pumps, legs slightly apart with her weight resting casually on her right leg, her hips slung sassily to the right. A cigarette and a cocktail were held expertly in her right hand, projecting out at a forty-five degree angle from the elbow pressed against her side. Her left hand, sweeping a colorful silk knee-length jacket back to expose a form-fitting black cocktail-cut jumpsuit and a perfectly toned body, was propped smartly on the left. Nail polish matching lip-glossed lips pursed out in a pout punctuated the dramatic image. It was a first impression Mackenna never forgot.
Although they wouldn’t meet again for several months, the introduction to Camille eventually proved to be quite a coup personally as they grew to be close friends; and singularly, it was the most significant event in Mackenna’s professional life.
EIGHT
On Shaky Ground
Talking to Camille under normal circumstances almost always brought back a flood of memories—of New York, Deirdre, and meeting Camille—and usually made Mackenna smile. Now they only made her want to cry again after being so cruel and hateful to her dear friend. She owed Camille so much—not as much career-wise but as a friend. Camille wasn’t just responsible for making Mackenna such a huge success, but she taught her how to navigate the Hollywood scene; she was there when Mackenna’s parents were killed, and when her relationship with Deirdre disintegrated. She was there without hesitation to help pick up the thousands of shattered pieces. Camille was always there. Dammit, now she felt terrible. Mackenna had just violated their friendship, said things she didn’t mean and probably did irreparable damage to Camille’s trust—all because she was going out of her mind.
Camille finally broke the interminable silence. “Mackie? Mackenna… are you still there?”
“What?” Mackenna was jolted out of her mental chatter. “Oh, I’m sorry… I must have zoned out for a second. I… What were you saying?”
“Nothing… I just… I thought maybe we got cut off… or maybe… you…” Camille’s voice trailed.
“No, I’m still here, Cami.” Mackenna spoke quietly and without energy. “Actually, Camille… love, I… I’m really sorry for what I said. It’s just… the thing is…” she paused for several seconds before softly admitting, “There’s nothing there. And it’s… difficult to admit.”
“It’s ok, I mean… Huh? What do you mean… nothing where?”
“Just nothing,” Mackenna reiterated. “Maybe it left… with them. And I… I can’t seem to write… and… I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay, Mackenna, sweetie—I gotcha. No need to explain further.” Camille understood. Mackenna had lost her artist’s groove.
Silence.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Camille said softly. “It’s been a rough time for you, and now all this.” Camille waved her hand to somehow illustrate to Mackenna through the phone.
“Anyway…” Mackenna faltered, feeling extremely uncomfortable after her maniacal outburst.
“I’m really sorry…” Camille interrupted. “Really. I should have known. Shit. Of course I don’t want another client to replace you, babe. That’s crazy. That’s not the point. I just thought… I just assumed… I mean, if I had known you weren’t writing I would have called a long time ago, you know, just to see how you were doing. Y’know? ‘Cause I love you, honey. But, Christ, I honestly thought you were working on a project and I didn’t want to bother you—you know how you hate to be disturbed when you’re working. I know how you hate it. It just didn’t occur to me… I mean, I really didn’t think it would be so difficult for you after… but of course that’s stupid. Of course it would be difficult. I’m an idiot.”
“No, no, Camille. You’re not. I’m as surprised as you are,” Mackenna observed sardonically.
“Right,” Camille mournfully agreed. “And say,” she continued, “you need to know that when it comes to our relationship the personal one takes precedence over business. Always. I love you to pieces, honey… I’m concerned about you—not your money. Good friends are hard to find, money’s not—it’s goddamned everywhere in this town. You know that.”
“I know that. I do.” Silent tears began to roll down Mackenna’s face. “I didn’t mean to go crazy on you, either, Camille. I’m the one who should apologize… I’m… totally out of control. This stupid earthquake really has my nerves a little frayed… and… you know, just blow off whatever I said, ’cause you know I didn’t mean…”
“No, god no, sweetie, I should have known it wasn’t going to be easy for you. It’s only natural, you know? I just feel terrible… I should have known—should have been a little more sensitive. Really, I should have been there for you. And I’ve been so busy on the new deal that’s been such a freakin’ bear…”
“We’re good, Camille. Really—I’ll be fine. You didn’t know… how could you? I’ll be fine, I will…” Filled with remorse, Mackenna added, “But I just feel so bad… tearing into you like that. It was mean and I had no right…” Her voice filled with sadness as it trailed off. “You know I love you, too, don’t you Cami?”
“Of course I know you do, darlin’. That’s probably why it’s so easy to hurt each other… Oh god,” she laughed softly. “Listen to me—was that a cliché or what? Call Hallmark! Anyway… listen, it’s over, okay?”
“Sure.” Mackenna wasn’t convinced.
“I’ll tell you what, Mackiedoodle…” Camille could hear the doubt in Mackenna’s voice. “Why don’t we start this conversation over from scratch? Hey?”
Mackenna sighed wearily. “Sure.” She was tired. Mackenna’s attention was suddenly diverted by Izzy’s gentle rapping on the library door frame. Izzy held a plate of food and gestured toward Mackenna who emphatically shook her head, rejecting the offer.
“I’ll put it in the fridge for ya, love,” Izzy mouthed, visibly disappointed her adopted charge stubbornly refused much needed nourishment.
Mackenna covered the phone with her hand and whispered loudly. “Thanks, Iz. I’ll be done in a bit.”
Izzy lingered momentarily before accepting defeat. “Love you,” Mackenna whispered as Izzy turned to leave.
Mackenna’s attention returned to Camille. “You sure you’re all right?” Camille prodded. “I don’t want to push, hon, but… you wanna talk about it?” Camille quickly added, “Don’t get mad at me, okay? I just care…”
“I know that. Of course I do, but I…”
“What?” Camille waited patiently, listening to the long silence coming from the other end of the phone while Mackenna struggled with conflicting desires. She desperately wanted to talk to someone about her slow-motion tumble into the bowels of depression. And yet, she was afraid if she talked about it, it would make it real—and then what?
“Look, Camille, you’re one of my best friends and I… I wish I could… I mean, I want to tell you, but…” She searched for words, debating whether to go on.
“What is it?”
Mackenna took a deep breath and began, “Camille…”
“What, hon?”
“The truth is, Cami…” Mackenna spoke with a hushed urgency as tears welled in her eyes. “I really think I’m losing it. I mean… I…” She sighed. “I just can’t talk to anyone right now, okay? I don’t want to…” Tears fell from her eyes and onto the aged leather desk blotter. “I just can’t. Maybe after everything settles down.” She stifled a sob. “Maybe.”
Suddenly the earth lunged as Camille exclaimed. “Oh Christ, here we go again!”
In mere seconds the temblor was over.
“It’s not as big as the last one, thank goodness.” Mackenna wiped her eyes and was silently thankful for the interruption.
“Whew! Okay, okay, honey, whenever you’re ready, but look, I know how you feel about therapy, so I just want you to know I’m here for you if you need me, okay? Always. I’m a great listener.” She giggled. “And, I’m cheap.”
Searching her desk drawers
for a tissue Mackenna retorted playfully, “Not according to my accountant you’re not!” She laughed as she wiped her nose, welcoming the levity.
“Ah, ha ha…” Camille laughed. You’re right, but I’m still a great listener.”
“I know, I know, I know. There’s just so much…” Mackenna’s voice dropped to a nearly inaudible level, choked off from the muscles in the throat constricting from a sudden wave of sadness that washed over her like a tidal wave. “So many memories.” Tears again flowed down her face.
“I know, babe…” Camille comforted. “I know things have been really hard for you, but you’ve got to believe me… things are going to get better. In time. It’s going to take some time, but you’re going to get through it all. I know you will… I know you. You’re a strong woman.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I guess… you’re right.” Mackenna composed herself and forced herself to redirect her worries. “But now we have this earthquake to deal with…” Back to the subject of the earthquake.
What irony, Camille thought. Back to the earthquake where the ground is less shaky. “Hmpf.” Camille pondered the situation for a moment, and then said with a heavy sigh, “Aren’t Mondays a bitch?”
“Yep,” Mackenna conceded. “They sure are.”
“Especially…” Camille was suddenly overcome with a rush of emotion and gushed, “Oh, I tell you, Mackie, I’ve been so worried about you; afraid you’d be all by yourself in that big house… I know how I feel, here by myself…” Camille choked up momentarily. “But I’m fine; really… it’s just… I’ve been trying to call you all day and could not get through! I mean it; I’ve been trying all day! It seems like forever since I saw you last… I can’t even remember when we even talked on the phone,” Camille momentarily combed her memory banks and then continued.
“I was so worried I thought I’d drive over, but it’s really a mess out there. And…” Camille hesitated a moment before sharing her fear. “To be perfectly honest, I’m afraid to be out there right now… you know with so many buildings and overpasses collapsing on people. I don’t know what would fall on me between here and there, but you never ever know, do you. I’ve been watching horror stories all day on the news.”
“I’m sure everyone’s fine, Camille,” Mackenna replied, instantly overcome with generosity. She felt terrible about her anti-social behavior, adding, “And I do appreciate you worrying about me and everyone else, for that matter. I guess I should have called you, but I have been just a little distracted. There’s a lot of square footage here and for some reason, everyone thinks I’m in charge. Anyway, you know I’m not by myself here. We’ve been keeping ourselves busy all day running around making sure the house is okay, you know, straightening up as much as we can between aftershocks… there’s so much to do here for everyone on regular days, know what I mean? But I should have called… I know you worry and had I known how bad it was out there, I would have called you right away.” She added with sincerity. “I’m glad you’re all right, too, love.”
“Thanks Mackie, I… I appreciate that. Really.” An instantaneous and jarring jolt sent Camille into a frightened tirade as her survival piles once again toppled over. “Oh no! Goddamn aftershocks! When the hell are they going to stop?” Camille shrieked. “When the hell is this nightmare going to be over? “For chrissakes! I am really hating this…” Camille quickly surveyed her bed piles and silently cursed to herself. Jesus, she thought angrily, Now I’ve got goddamn cookie shit all over my fucking bed. Shit.
“You all right, Cami?”
“Yes, yes. Just a little frazzled. You?”
“Fine, just fine. I think I’m actually getting used to this. Everything in here’s fine and I don’t here any shrieking from the rest of the house.”
“Good… good. Okay. You were saying before we were so rudely interrupted…”
“I wasn’t saying anything, Cami—I think you were…” Mackenna searched her memory for the subject of their conversation.
“Actually,” Camille began, “you know what? I don’t even know what we were talking about.”
Mackenna suddenly felt drained.
“Well, it probably wasn’t important, right?” Camille was just as bewildered as Mackenna.
“Uh huh,” Mackenna replied.
“Anyway… I guess I should get off the phone and get to work,” Camille reluctantly admitted. “I’ve got Sasha Gordon’s new screenplay to read. The messenger delivered it right before I called you… if you can believe that! The post office should take lessons from Hollywood… the show must go on and all that, right? Or is that Broadway? I don’t know. I’m always so confused on that point.” She laughed. “What’s new, right? Anyway,” she continued, “we’re supposed to cook up our strategy over dinner tonight, so I guess I’d better get on it. I don’t know if we’ll actually get together tonight after everything that’s happened, but I am looking forward to reading it, by candle light, no less! Sasha says it’s a, um… let’s see, how did she put it? Ugh, it’s around here in this stupid pile somewhere…
“Well, anyway… apparently it’s a modern Doris Day/Rock Hudson-esque romp, early sixties style, set in the nineties, of course—and the boy doesn’t exactly get the girl… if you know what I mean,” she added conspiratorially. “It sounds like a hoot, but mostly likely we’ll need to go independent. But I’ll tell you all about it later, okay? Oh! Unless, you’d like to join us?”
Camille sat up off her pillows and pleaded. “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea, Mackie! Why didn’t I think of that earlier? It won’t really be a business dinner… the IRS doesn’t need to know everything, do they?” She giggled mischievously. “It’ll be more like ninety-nine percent pleasure. “Anyway, I know you haven’t seen Sasha since at least two Oscars ago—ages ago, anyway—and I know she’d love to see you. And you know I would! How about it? We’re planning on eating funky—Lucy’s. That is if the place is even there—I haven’t been in years. Sasha’s idea, so I don’t know… After all this junk I’ve eaten, though, I don’t think I’ll even be able to look at food, but it’s your favorite…” she enticed. “Mexican. It’ll be a gas… probably literally if you know what I mean.” She laughed out loud at her earthy reference. “Kind of like camping out—Hollywood-style, of course. Then again, if things don’t settle down we might have to venture down to the OC just to get away from the rumbling. You don’t think Orange County is as bad, do you? Well, personally, I don’t care for flakes of plaster in my tortillas—or in anything else of mine! Been there! Done that!!” She laughed out loud. “What do you think? Wanna come?”
Camille waited for a response as Mackenna suddenly realized there was an actual break in Camille’s almost manic soliloquy and a response was required of her. “Oh, no… no, Camille.” Mackenna replied, panicked just at the thought of socializing. “I’m just not ready, and I… I…”
“It might do you some good to get out of that house— especially since you don’t have any power…”
“I can’t… not right now.”
“If you’re sure. Ugh, listen to me; I’m getting nuts on you again. All right, I’m sorry… it was just a thought. It would be fun to get together, the three of us like old times, but I understand. Really. Some other time then. Look… I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you all about the screenplay, and whether I actually see Sasha in person tonight, or not, I’ll still find out all about the latest gossip, okay?”
“Sure, sounds good.”
“Okay, great. So—you got enough candles?”
“Tons.”
“Water?”
“Gallons.”
“Ammo?”
“Huh?”
“Looters, darling,” Camille said with seriousness.
“Oh, no,” Mackenna replied. “Well, I guess we do… my father’s gun collection would work, I guess, if we had to protect the fort, but is that really a problem? Do you think?”
“Could be. You never know.”
“I suppose you’ve got a point there.”
>
“All right, then,” Camille decided, “you’ll survive any disaster. Gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow, babe. Kiss, kiss.”
“Yeah, kiss, kiss, Cami. Kiss Sasha for me.”
“My pleasure. Uh oh, here we go again… Ride ’em cowboy! Talk to you tomorrow, kiddo… if we’re not swimming in the ocean by then! Ciao, babe!”
NINE
The Abigail Factor
As I sit here writing in what was once my father’s library, I am struck by myriad memories of my childhood, some good, most not. Despite so many unhappy experiences in this room, I find myself hopelessly drawn here to do what I love most. This room in particular, while holding mostly fond, warm and fuzzy memories of my time spent with Papá, also recalls vivid and painful times.
It was here where I was firmly reprimanded and soundly chastised by both my parents for my various and horrible misdeeds throughout my youth. Where other children might be sent to their rooms or worse, I was directed to the library. It’s odd that I should recall so many summons to this room since I was away at school so much and my parents were rarely home, but that’s the way it is for me. I have a selective memory that, for some odd reason, seems compelled to dwell on and mostly catalogue the unpleasant.
Oh, how I hated to be called to this room, knowing with full certainty what I would find waiting for me here. Knowing they would be waiting in solidarity, Papá sitting in this very chair and Mother standing behind him, their faces set in stone. Mother’s eyes blazed Irish fire with such intensity it always seemed as if the very temperature in the room had raised several degrees. And I, standing before them, practically cowering like the criminal I surely was, endured the usually harsh admonishment from my mother while my father glared in supportive silence.
Rarely was I called on or allowed to answer or explain my actions, or suspected actions, as it were. While Mother scolded or ranted depending on my crime, her knuckles white with anger on Papá’s shoulder, I found solace in the Degas painting just behind them, or the beautiful patterns of the rows and rows of rare or first edition books that rose from the floor twenty-four feet to the ceiling. Most of them were Papá’s books, the majority in Spanish. I was forbidden to touch them, though I did so, undetected, on several rather daring occasions.
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