All morning, this is all I can think of while I’m supposed to be finishing the scene mapped out w/ Lucci in time for our P.M. meeting…
When Lucci finally arrives, the sky’s dark w/ rain. He proposes a glass of grappa (the relief of somebody else making the suggestion to drink!). Drink that, then the heavy Belgian beer he brought, too. Him smoking cigars while we work. He keeps asking what about this, what about that—his cigar, I tell him, is clouding my head… (In fact thinking about Lucy, at home with her husband… wondering—how is she going about it, the mundane routine of domesticity, with him, today? Wonder if guilt makes her effusive or withdrawn… and can he, does he, intuit the difference in his wife? Can he possibly suspect another man’s semen spilled inside her womb?)
Have no sense of triumph, no sense of lording it over. Instead, have an odd respect for this man, unseen, unknown—stems from the respect she has for him, I know: her absolute, incorruptible refusal to speak badly of him—but there’s something else, too; it’s the respect I feel for the guy who discovered Lucy, who saw what was there; for the man who found her first. Find myself returning over and over to something she said at the beach, before anything: I like to be overlooked.
Myself—would I have found her? Would I have looked at her w/ desire, or even just interest, if nothing had happened to make me question Maggie in the first place …?
Think back to that first day at Griffith, to that nondescript woman in baggy clothes reading under a tree, her child close by…
In fact, it was her ring that caught my eye, that wide and simple band that made me look at her again (“w/ this, I thee wed”), nothing else … it was my own compulsion, in the beginning, to seduce a married woman, that drew me to her. That made me go there again.
Was she (is she) really nothing more, deep down, than the occasion of my vengeance for a crime I am no longer at all sure my wife did, in reality, commit?
Your demons, Lucy whispered. Let me tame them.
You have, I’d said then, and meant it, too—but they knew better. (Never.)
Lucci’s grappa is like blindness. The clear, fluid brilliance of it. I am blinded.
From Lucy’s notebook, this, by Rilke: “Having promised one another distance, hunting, and home, don’t lovers always cross each other’s boundaries?”
After midnight.
Can’t sleep.
—3 february, Hollywood
Isabel called this morning, rode me about being a “Hollywood hotshot,” asked what the hell was going on with M. and me. Told her I was sure she would know that better than me. She said, Well, I don’t, but whatever it is, I want you both to FIX IT.
Is this an olive branch mission, I asked her but she said no, she said mistletoe (a threat). Two weeks ago I would’ve been grateful for her call—might even have extorted her confidence, begged her to tell me if, pleaded for her to tell me everything—
But now the incident w/ Lucy too fresh in my mind; have same fear of Isabel reading me as I would Maggie (the way women are so sure they know everything—and how they do. Drives me crazy).
Told her it was none of her business instead, in the usual mock-harsh tone we’ve always used with each other, and anyway I had to go. She immediately gives me back her version of Maggie, of Wife:
So, you ever coming back?
Such conspiracy between them. Sometimes they both drive me crazy in the exact same way. Second wife, Isabel likes to say whenever she does anything domestic at the loft. Second wife clean up, my job, she’ll say, in elaborate homage to the “special” bond between the married…
Informed Isabel I had no immediate plans to do so “at this point” … then only realized after hanging up that I truly have taken up residence on this hill, in this climate; it’s a better place to live than it ever was to visit. But then, it’s the first time I’ve ever been taken hostage by the hidden wild canyons here, the earth rising in ancient hills, coyotes and house parties, rock slides, stupid money.
Just don’t forget Valentine’s Day, Isabel said before we got off. Send something.
—6 february, Hollywood
Working with Lucci’s like cheating, I tell Lucy this, too. Not the same wrenching hollowness of working from nothing, working alone, in that place where there is no escape, no one to look on approvingly, to say yes, that’s right, go on. Or showing it to someone only to find they don’t understand, they can’t see what you see.
And yet, the solace of working with someone else. Even the most sleepless hours, the graveyard shift, somehow less solitary knowing someone is waiting for those pages at the other end. The sense of Lucci’s anticipation a palpable presence, like a ghost one can believe in, through some otherwise long and arduous vigil (how he strokes his chin when he reads, how his eyebrows meet, turning into one V-shaped bristly line). Have learned to watch his face, the same tricks they taught Savage, tricks my father taught me: how to see if there’s something there, the tremor of feeling.
Hm, he says, and even that sound carries his native accent. Hm, yes.
On the other hand, how it reduces one to the status of a child, begging for that approval—working, writing, for approval.
Rain coming down, endless, we spend hours over three pages, one of us at either end of the wooden table, notes scattered in between. He goes on about betrayal—how Savage betrays his country, he keeps saying, with such force, almost contempt, that I am compelled to protest in defense of my character.
Yes, but it’s only in his struggle to keep his allegiance to himself, I say, needlessly, idiotically, and Lucci nods but it’s clear: not for a moment, not for an instant, does he believe it.
To betray the place where one is made, it is like murdering your mother. He laughs, he throws up his hands. Maybe she is a monster, he says. But still—she is your mother!
It’s Europe, I tell him at dinner, two bottles of wine gone. You have all that history there—to betray that is to betray more than just a government. Here, everything’s built for just one generation. We all secretly harbor the hope of dying young—it’s part of the American dream.
Yes, he says, he is suddenly excited; I have begun to recognize this mood, something greedy in his eyes, he leans forward like he’s going to catch something you’ve dropped unaware, something precious, something you yourself have no idea the value of—
Yes, this is it, this is the key! It is his belief in his own death that permits him to commit such treachery.
The horror of discovering one’s own duplicity.
—9 february, Hollywood
Called Peter to fill him in, the ever-changing plot, want to ask, had he ever imagined it like this?
No, Peter admits. But how does Savage like it?
Savage likes it, I say; we have always spoken of my characters as if they were distant friends, the kinds of people about whom news travels fast. He likes it a lot.
Just don’t do any Bond, James Bond, okay?
Christ, Peter, have you seen any of Lucci’s films?
Listen, I know he’s good, maybe he’s even great, but I was there first—
I love it when you get possessive.
He laughs, and in the background, I hear a voice, male, familiar.
Who’s over there?
A friend of yours, he says. Hang on.
… Hello? Con’s voice.
I stand where I am, I have lost the power of speech.
Miles, you there?
Yeah, hi. Have to clear my throat, force the words up.
How’s it going?
The excitement in his voice unmistakable, and suddenly he is simply who he’s always been—my most ardent fan, my brightest student, my youngest friend. He asks about the script, makes me tell him details—LA, Lucci, everything.
I didn’t know you were going to stay, he says finally. I could have sworn disappointment.
Maggie didn’t tell you? Her name falls loaded, for an instant he does not respond.
Yeah, but she acted like … He trails off, and I press
him, forcing it.
Like what?
I don’t know, like it was something that had been decided before.
I don’t answer, I am just listening now for the giveaway detail, I am sure he will slip, something—the art of listening and its converse: what the spy has that the civilian does not, the fear of giving himself away, the inadvertent slip (you will show yourself and never know it). The safe thing, always, is to listen, and now I did, but all he said was that she seemed “kind of unhappy,” hesitant, as if loath to interfere with my private life, and worse, as if loath to believe anything could be wrong. The sincerity of it blindsides me.
He changes the subject and then I interrupt, both of us relieved, to ask him what the hell he’s doing over at Peter’s, anyway.
It’s about a literary magazine, G, like that one in London, Con says. Peter’s been talking to Russell, they want to start a sister version of it here. They asked for a contribution and who knows? I might even be hired…
He’s going to be published, this is what he’s telling me, so backhandedly it takes me a moment to think of the right word (congratulations), even as I think now he’s got my editor, too. It’s this voraciousness Maggie loves, I’m sure of it—and talent, such a turn-on.
How it used to be with us.
After we hung up, ordered a dozen yellow, to be expressed for tomorrow, the price absurdly high. Woman asking, what do you want on the card.
Love, I told her.
That’s it?
That’s all.
Treachery, the word won’t leave me. Treason. T, the letter that must be crossed. Maggie, I think. Lucy.
Double-crossed.
It is still raining when I go to bed, it hasn’t once let up, and it rains without changing, the same drenching soak. The house, all windows save what faces the street, is chilled to the corners, its creaky furnace nothing against this unrelenting damp.
Maybe she has betrayed me (is betraying me, will betray me still), but it does not change the fact that now, I’m a traitor, too.
—13 february, Hollywood
Maggie called, Happy VD.
Couldn’t read her tone, said, Same to you.
She said sorry she didn’t send me anything, At the last minute—it’s the difference in our expense accounts.
Asked her if that was supposed to be funny.
Funny how? Ha-ha or peculiar?
You didn’t like the roses, I said then. They stink.
They’re still frozen. Maybe they’ll smell like something when they wake up. If they wake up, she could not help adding. (If only she knew what a BITCH she was. How it silences me, what a fucking bitch she can be!)
Anyway, thanks, she said then, managing to insult me even with this, her so-called gratitude.
No, I said. Thank you.
What for?
For reminding me what it’s like, I said acidly, to be with you.
Oh, I am sorry! Did I forget to fall for the cheapest gesture you’ve ever made? FedExing twelve overpriced frozen flowers the night before Valentine’s Day? Is that what Lear does? Is that what Lucci does?
Didn’t you know? That’s what we all do here in Hollywood! Can’t help but give in to our faithful wives at the eleventh hour—after we’ve had our session with the latest twenty-two-year-old, of course—
No, in fact, I didn’t know! But really, thanks for the information. God knows, as a journalist I certainly do appreciate the facts.
She hung up on me, hard.
—14 february, Hollywood
The next day, a uniform white fog that blankets everything, lying low. Could be anytime, dawn, noon, evening—outside, nothing changes.
The threat of rain hovers, but I head for the park anyway, know with a gut certainty that she’ll be there—she and Walter, both (I know about her bouts of “cabin fever,” how when she has to get out, Walter is only too happy to provide her happy excuse; she hides behind him, I’ve caught her—hey, it’s how I found her).
They’re sitting at a picnic table, taking things out of a brown paper bag. They both look up, but Walter spots me first, shouts, he laughs when I wave to him. She looks as if she, too, had known I’d show up, but her smile’s fleeting, she doesn’t hold my gaze. Then we’re both avoiding each other’s eyes (a naked episode of history between us now, & me wondering, was it real …?).
It was raining, Walter says, as if continuing some conversation between us. We couldn’t play outside.
He looks at me, searching, says, Did you?
No. I shake my head, and we share an utter, male kinship, so pure it is disorienting. I laugh and he laughs, too, immediately interested in joy, and the possibility of everything fun.
I got Toby, he says, he lifts a small toy train car with both hands, lets me examine it; it’s unexpectedly heavy, made of metal, painted yellow, dense with detail.
My daddy buyed it for me.
Walt, Lucy says, if you want to play with Toby you better do it now, because we have to go soon.
He looks at his mother, assessing the weight of her warning. She looks back, eyes steady (she means it). His smile another flash of pure joy, light seems to come out of that child’s face, and then he’s running, sliding to his knees in the dirt, making his car screech over rocks. Lucy and I are left in his wake, the air between us still fresh with rain, unutterably clear.
We sit like two adults, stiff, and I think of Walter’s freedom of movement—how he leaps and runs, jumps and crawls, how he hides his face in his mother’s crotch. He has range, access, no permission necessary.
My choices so limited in comparison: I can speak; stand; exit. I can sit where I am, pursuing the only course of action left to me: to present myself as a cipher, oblivious to despair. As if mirroring my thoughts, her silence has become unfathomable, too: I do not know her at all.
When I speak, I pitch my voice low, as casual as possible so as not to attract the child’s attention.
How are you.
I don’t know, she says, half-shrugs. Busy, I guess.
Busy doing what?
I don’t know, she says it again, as if she truly doesn’t. Nothing much. Skipping class.
How come?
I’ve already finished all the books on the list and they’re still discussing the first. She’s sweeping crumbs from the table, frowning as if it takes all her concentration.
Maybe you’re reading too fast.
Of course I am, she says. Do you know how many books there are in this world?
You can hardly read them all, I point out.
I have no desire to read them all, she answers. Just the good ones.
I have to smile then, and for a moment I think she’s going to smile back, she’s going to stop her fussing and look at me, but she swings around instead.
Walter, she shouts. Lunch is ready!
He bestows another one of his blinding smiles upon us, & I feel the silk of his child’s skin as he climbs up on the bench to hug me, to say I love you as if it’s simply a matter of fact, the knees of his little blue jeans stained deep with grass. We both concentrate on him now (both of us, I am sure, equally grateful for the distraction).
And what’ve you been up to, li’l rascal?
I got a bike, he says, small hands wrapped around half a sandwich, creamy peanut butter and grape jelly, the purple of it already oozing out.
Yeah? What kind of bike is it?
Banana, he says. Lucy makes a curving motion with one hand, the shape of the seat.
It’s a big kid’s bike, he tells me, and I’m startled again by the unusual depth of his voice, how it cracks. I find myself staring, catching these painful glinting glimpses of who else—who, with Lucy—created this child…
Tomorrow when the trains come, Walter says. He makes enigmatic statements in the same matter-of-fact manner, as if, though lacking any point of reference, I must surely know what he’s talking about, catch its essential sense; it’s his assumption about the way the world works, a single subterranean river
connecting everything.
It isn’t until I realize I’m just staring at the truly spectacular catastrophe Walter is managing to turn his PB&J into that I force myself out of my trance. He, on the other hand, remains spellbound, every molecule in his being bent on consuming every last drop of gooey mess. When I look up, I see Lucy sitting still the same way, her face averted.
Seriously, Luce, I say, breaking the silence again. How’ve you been?
She makes a small gesture with one shoulder, as if the question could not be answered. As if it is too much. We are both sitting on the bench, facing Walter, who, having laid what remains of his sandwich down, is sitting a few feet away, busy with his cars again, making all kinds of noises; he seems fully absorbed inside that imaginary world, and for a second I envy him that absorption; how easily it comes.
I watch him and wait without speaking, until finally she turns toward me, she lets me see her eyes.
I keep thinking, she says, about the other day here, when Walter— She stops, flushed, she keeps looking away, as though it hurts her to meet my gaze.
It could’ve been so much worse, I know, she goes on. But then I think maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all if I hadn’t been so preoccupied (her voice rising before I can interrupt), with you. I wasn’t watching him the way I should have—and then there were three messages from Will when I came home after—after Malibu … when I heard his voice—she takes a breath, it hit me like—
It’s only then that I figure out her husband must have been out of town, but she rushes on before I can respond.
He was so worried about me—it didn’t even occur to him to be suspicious! And then he came home, and I just … lied, straight out. Told him I couldn’t sleep and took a pill, told him oh I’d turned the ringer off, I was just, so! Determined! To get my eight! And you know what? Her look is so full of self-contempt, such self-hatred, I have to blink. When she answers herself, her voice is soft. It was so easy. It all came out perfectly—I hit every note so true, I believed myself. … Because I would have said anything to spare him—to protect him from what I’ve done.
She stops speaking. I don’t say anything. I can think of nothing to say.
Hollywood Savage Page 6