The Brave

by Nicholas Evans

  Remembering his true life story now required real effort. How, forty-two years ago—some eight years more than he ever admitted to—little Lennie Gulewicz had been born in the sulfurous shadow of a Pennsylvania smelting plant; how the only time he'd ever been on his daddy's knee was when the murderous bastard thrashed him half senseless with a belt or an ax shaft or whatever else came to hand; how his mommy was mostly too drunk or beat up or too busy in the back bedroom screwing some stranger to make so much as a cup of coffee; how, as soon as he could, little Lennie had upped and run away and spent his teens in and out of the reformatory, mostly for thieving except for the time he knifed and nearly killed some little fuck who'd ratted on him.

  The funny thing was, there were young actors in Hollywood nowadays who would pay good money for that kind of background. Kids who'd been brought up in decent homes in nice neighborhoods with loving moms and dads and nannies and puppies and new bicycles every goddamn Christmas. And these same kids were now busy making up fake histories of suffering and all kinds of cruel deprivation because this was now considered cool and might make the public think they were the new Marlon Brando or Jimmy Dean, all moody and mean, all tortured and twisted and sexy.

  Not that Ray blamed them. Hell, if he were twenty years younger he wouldn't have to lie at all. And then he wouldn't have gotten stuck in the rut he was stuck in now, pretending to be the man in the white hat, the wholesome hero he'd come to despise. Movies had already gotten the message, that it was okay to have stars with dirty faces and dirtier pasts. But TV was in a time warp and still seemed to think America wanted these laughable Mr. Clean cardboard cutouts, heroes who never broke wind or went to the bathroom.

  Given all this, he still couldn't quite believe that he'd managed to find himself—and, so far, hold on to—a woman as classy as Diane. She was young and gorgeous and talented enough to have anyone she wanted. Such as that arrogant little fuck McQueen who'd given her the eye that day outside Schwab's and whose crappy movie The Magnificent Assholes was apparently doing infuriatingly good business all over the world. At the Kanters' party, at every party they went to, guys were falling over themselves to get at her. And yet, until that meddling cow Louella Parsons had poked her fat nose in, Diane only seemed to have eyes for him. Hell, she even wanted to marry him.

  Ray wasn't dumb. He'd figured out pretty early on that the way to her heart was through Tommy. She was so flooded with guilt for having pretended to be the boy's sister all those years that she wanted to give him everything she could to make up for it. From the first time he saw the two of them together, at the school Speech Day, Ray had noticed how her eyes went all mushy whenever he made a fuss over Tommy. And soon afterward he'd sensed in her a kind of desperation to find the boy a father and give him a proper family life. And the kid was nuts about cowboys, so what better candidate for the job could there be than good ol' Ray Montane?

  Putting it that way made it sound too calculated, as if taking on the kid was the price he'd had to pay for getting Diane. And it wasn't like that. Of course, Ray had often wished—and still mostly did—that it was just the two of them, just him and Diane, with no baggage attached. But over the past few months he'd actually come to like the kid. Okay, he was a little weird, but he learned fast and wasn't anything like as wimpy as he'd first seemed. In fact, he was turning out to be quite a tough little sonofabitch.

  Ray was still dazed by what had happened last night and even more by what had happened this morning. The sex had been something else, the best they'd ever had. And after a night like that, he'd kind of assumed he was forgiven and that everything would be all right again. But this morning she'd packed their things and told him she and Tommy were moving out and going to live in her little apartment. As she left she said, all cold and sarcastic, that maybe he'd let her know when he wasn't still married to somebody else. What she told Tommy, Ray didn't have any idea, but the poor kid sure didn't look happy when they drove off.

  During the interrogation last night, Ray had answered her questions more or less truthfully. And if she'd asked some better ones he'd probably have told her a whole lot more. He might even have owned up to having a daughter. Maybe he should have volunteered it, just to get it out of the way. Or maybe not. Most likely, it would have been the final straw. Anyhow, there was no danger of Diane finding out. He hardly knew the kid, hadn't seen her in years. Hell, he wouldn't even recognize her if he bumped into her in the street. And she'd know better, from that bitch of a mother of hers, than to come calling or give him any trouble.

  The door to the Colonel's office was opening now and there was a burst of laughter. An agent whose name Ray could never remember, one of Lew Wasserman's MCA foot soldiers, was coming out with a pretty young broad in a yellow dress and too much red lipstick. Some young actress who'd just been signed and would doubtless soon be making her way up that secret staircase. Jack Warner had his arms around their shoulders. They all looked so damn pleased with themselves, it made you want to puke.

  With little waves and meaningful glances, the agent and the actress went off down the staircase and Warner straightened his blue silk tie and walked toward Ray. The old bastard looked as dapper as ever. The tailored gray suit, the perfect triangle of pale blue silk poking from the breast pocket. Hair slicked back, eyebrows cocked sardonically, the pencil-thin mustache above that toothy smile.

  "Ray! Sorry you've had to wait so long."

  Ray stood up and shook his hand.

  "No problem, Colonel. Good to see you."

  "You bet. Come on in."

  Ray gathered up his briefcase and followed him past the dragon and into the outer office where blondie flashed another smile and then on and through and into the great man's office with its imperial desk and casting couch. Colonel Jack settled back in his throne behind the desk and Ray sat in front of it on one much lower. It was all part of the same bullshit game, to make you feel small and insecure.

  The meeting had been scheduled a month ago when they'd bumped into each other one lunchtime in the commissary. Ray had said it would be good to have a chat sometime, about the future and all that, and the Colonel said he agreed and had been meaning to get in touch for a while. Ray had taken this as a hint that, at long last, thank the Lord, the old bastard was going to see sense and let him do a proper movie.

  Ray had come prepared. He'd brought along the script he'd been sent by Steve Shelby, the young writer he'd met at the Kanters' place. Ray's part needed a lot of work to build it up, but for a first draft it was pretty good. He slipped it out of his briefcase and put it on the desk. Jack Warner was leaning back staring at him, his fingertips delicately pressed together.

  "So how're ya doing, Colonel?"

  "Oh, you know. Uneasy lies the head that wears the toilet seat."

  Ray had heard it before but dutifully smiled. Warner looked at his watch and sat up a little.

  "Ray, I have to be at a board meeting at half past, so we better cut to the chase."

  "Okay. Well, I've got one or two—"

  "We're going to drop Sliprock."

  Ray stared at him for a moment.

  "You're what?"

  "You know as well as I do it's not getting the audience it used to. The network isn't happy."

  "Well, Colonel, the latest figures I saw weren't—"

  "It's not your fault. The show's just too old-fashioned."

  "Well, that's exactly what I've been saying for a long time. I've been telling the idiots to—"

  "Which idiots? Dan and Lew are fine producers."

  "I know, I'm sorry. But I've been telling them we've got to get with it. Get some grittier scripts. All you gotta do is watch shows like Wagon Train. Get some of the guys who write that stuff. And get someone under the age of sixty to direct now and then. Some of these younger guys around town are hot stuff. And they don't cost so much either. Colonel, believe me, I've been saying these things till I'm blue in the face—"

  "Ray, listen to me. The show is sinking. When a ship is sinking
you don't fuck around with the furniture."

  Ray couldn't believe this was happening.

  "The western's had its day."

  "Oh, Colonel, I don't think that'll ever—"

  "I tell you. People don't want them anymore. Don't get me wrong, it's not going to happen tomorrow. The good ones—your Wagon Trains and Bonanzas—they'll roll on for a while. But in ten years' time there won't be a single western left. Mark my words. Maybe the odd movie, but on TV? Not one."

  There was a long pause. Ray shook his head.

  "I don't know what to say. But, hell, you know, maybe it's an opportunity. Tell you the truth, that's what I came along here today to talk about. You know I've been itching to do a movie. I don't mean some Saturday afternoon Hitching Post deal, I mean a real movie...."

  The Colonel gave a little sigh and looked down at his fingertips. Ray picked up the screenplay. His hand was shaking. He suddenly felt desperate, like some sniveling little kid.

  "... and I've got some great ideas. In fact, I've brought this script along that might just fit the bill—"

  "I'll have someone take a look."

  "The kid who wrote it, Steve Shelby, I tell ya, Colonel, he's really something. Herb Kanter reckons he's some kind of genius—"

  "Sure, sure. We'll take a look. But I have to tell you, Ray, leaving that aside, after this current season, we'll be terminating your contract."

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE SNOW HAD BEEN FALLING since dawn. There was almost a foot of it by now, enough to deaden all sound except the shuffle of their feet as they followed the coffin out of the church and into the graveyard. There was no wind and the flakes settled fat and feathery on the bare heads and on the shoulders of the bearers in their black overcoats. The funeral director was at the door, handing out black umbrellas.

  As the procession wove its way through the gravestones, one of the bearers slipped and the coffin lurched and for a moment Tommy thought it was going to crash to the ground and spill his grandmother's body on to the snow. But the other bearers deftly braced and he righted himself and all that fell was one wreath of roses, a splash of red in a world of white and black.

  It was the church where Tommy had been christened. It was six hundred years old and some of the gravestones tilted precariously and were so overgrown with moss and lichen that you couldn't read what was written on them anymore. His grandmother had never believed in God. She used to say it was all stuff and nonsense and never came here with them at Christmas or Easter. But, for some reason, this was where she was to be buried. The grave that had been dug for her was close to an old yew tree, its sprawl of branches bending under the weight of the snow. Tommy remembered reading somewhere that yews were witches' trees.

  The bearers put the coffin down on some canvas straps that had been laid ready beside the grave and then, using these, they lifted it again and lowered it slowly between the sliced walls of frozen earth.

  There had been no more than a dozen people at the service in the church and fewer still had stayed on for the burial. The only people Tommy recognized across the grave were Dr Henderson and Uncle Reggie and Auntie Vera, who'd cried loudly all through the church service and was still crying now. Nobody else was. But then they were mostly men and men weren't supposed to cry. Tommy felt too empty and numb to cry. And much too cold. His feet felt like clumps of frozen rock. He was wearing his old Ashlawn school suit and wished he'd put on a thicker sweater.

  Diane was still wearing her sunglasses. Perhaps she didn't want people to see whether or not she was crying. Tommy was close enough to know she wasn't. She was standing beside him, trying to shelter both him and her father under her umbrella which was difficult because the old man seemed to be off in a world of his own and kept swaying out to stare at the sky with a kind of weary surprise, blinking whenever a snowflake landed on his eyes.

  The umbrellas looked like igloos. The old rector's nose had gone purple with cold and his breath made clouds in the air as he hurried through what he had to say. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. The handful of frozen soil rattled on the coffin lid.

  The telegram had been delivered to the apartment in LA on Sunday morning, just over a week before Christmas, telling Diane to phone home urgently. It was Auntie Vera who answered. She said Joan had died of a massive heart attack. Arthur had found her lying on the kitchen floor when he came home from work.

  Ray drove them out to the airport that same afternoon. They hardly saw him anymore though he still phoned every day. Tommy missed him a lot and felt sorry for him too because the studio was going to stop making Sliprock. Diane was still being horrible to him after their argument. She wouldn't tell Tommy what it had been about. She said he was too young to understand which was one of the most maddening things a grown-up could ever say. On the way to the airport, Ray was really sweet. He looked sad and sheepish and somehow smaller than he used to. Diane hardly spoke to him, just sat there, staring out of the window while Ray and Tommy did all the talking. On the plane, after they'd had supper and the lights had all been turned down, Tommy asked her why she had to go on being so unfriendly to Ray.

  "He didn't tell me the truth about something. Something very important."

  "What?"

  Diane sighed.

  "He didn't tell me that he'd been married before."

  "Even I knew that."

  "Twice."

  "What's so bad about that?"

  "And that he's not yet properly divorced from his last wife."

  "Maybe he forgot."

  She laughed.

  "You don't forget about something like that."

  Tommy thought for a while.

  "What's different about him not telling you about that and you not telling me all those years that you were my real mother?"

  Diane didn't reply for a moment, just looked at him with a sad smile.

  "How come you're so darned clever? Come on, let's get some sleep."

  The rector had stopped talking now and everyone piled back into their cars and drove home to eat all the food that Auntie Vera and Diane had prepared. Tommy helped hand out the sandwiches and soup and then walked around with a jug of steaming fruit punch into which Uncle Reggie had poured everything alcoholic he could find in the house. The cold seemed to have made everybody very thirsty. They all asked him about living in California and Uncle Reggie, who'd clearly already had too much punch, kept putting on an American accent and saying howdy, pardner whenever Tommy walked past.

  It had been strange to see all his grandmother's things around the house when they arrived two days ago. It was as if she'd just nipped out to the shops. Her apron hanging by the kitchen door, her slippers on the floor by the doormat, her cigarettes and lighter on the sideboard where she always kept them. Diane had cleared a lot of it away and they had gone out and bought a Christmas tree and tried to make the house look a little more cheerful. But the decorations only seemed to make the place seem sadder still. There was another big difference which, for a long time, he couldn't put his finger on. Then he realized it was simply the silence. Joan had always had the radio on.

  As the big bowl of rum punch slowly emptied, the voices got rowdier. And when he could do so without being noticed, Tommy slipped away upstairs. His old room had been redecorated as a guest room with green floral wallpaper and a sickly yellow carpet. He stood by the window, staring out at the back garden. The light was fading fast. He remembered how excited he always used to be when it snowed but today everything just looked flat and dull. It didn't seem like home anymore. He no longer knew where home was.

  Diane thought they were never going to leave. And even when at last they did, Auntie Vera insisted on staying on to clear up. Tommy and Uncle Reggie were in the sitting room, watching TV. Diane's father had long ago quietly escaped to his little workshop.

  "So, whatever happened to that film you were supposed to be doing with Gary Cooper? What was it called?"

  Vera was at the kitchen sink, washing the last of the dishes. Diane was stan
ding beside her drying them and longing to smash them over the woman's head. She hadn't stopped yakking all afternoon and everything she said was snide or scornful. Diane took a deep breath.

  "Remorseless. It's been delayed."

  "Again?"

  "It happens all the time."

  "Oh, really? Must cost a lot. More money than sense, I suppose, these film people."

  Diane wasn't going to give the woman the satisfaction of knowing that the movie would now, in all probability, never be made. Herb Kanter had told her only last week that Gary Cooper had cancer and had been given only a few months to live. Herb asked her to keep this news to herself for the moment because only a few people knew. He claimed he was confident they would be able to recast, but Diane didn't really believe it.

  There was a long pause, just the clack of the dishes in the sink and laughter from the TV in the next room.

  "Of course, she never got over it," Vera said.

  "Sorry, who never got over what?"

  "Your mother. When you told Tommy about... you know. It broke her heart."

  "Why don't you just say it?"

  Auntie Vera turned to stare at her. Her face was flushed with drink.

  "Say what?"

  "That I killed her. It's obviously what you think."

  "Don't be so melodramatic."

  "Get out," Diane said quietly.

  "What?"

  "Put your coat on, take that drunken old fool of a husband with you and just go. Now!"