“How’d that go?” he says, almost choking on the pie.
“All right,” I lie.
He gulps his coffee. “Wasn’t y’all’s last name Parker?”
“Yep. Wilson is my married name.” I glance at my bare finger. I never wear my one-carat, princess-cut diamond ring to auditions.
“I shoulda known somebody done snatched you up. How long you been hitched?”
“Ten years. Hey, have you seen the old neighborhood? It’s changed.”
“I know. The west side has. It’s been gentrified. East side is still a dump. My mom lives over there now. She had to because after they fixed up the west side, the rents went through the roof. A lot of people from the ’hood are on the eastside now. Hey, I’m sorry about what happened to Robert. I hear the police never found out who took him out of the game. That was a damn shame. He’d made it to the pros. Was living the dream. Damn! Life is so unfair.”
As I listen to him, I wonder if his sympathy is genuine or if he had something to do with Robert’s murder. I study his face, his eyes, looking for any signs of guilt. “Yeah, I still haven’t gotten over it. I still want justice, Ron.”
“I don’t blame you,” he says, swallowing hard. “Where’d y’all move to?”
“My mother and stepfather live in Inglewood. My husband and I live in Culver City.”
“Damn, you a long way from home, Dorothy. No tellin’ when the freeway is going to reopen. If push comes to shove, my mom has some space. I’m staying there now. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you staying the night. Hell, that’s the least we could do. I know we was always borrowing stuff from y’all.”
We both laugh.
“Hey, looks like the freeway has reopened,” Kate says, turning up the TV volume.
Gus and his friend join us at the counter. We all clap. My phone rings, and I move to the back of the diner for privacy.
“Hey, Taylor. Good news. The freeway has reopened.”
“Great, because I was on my way out there.”
“I’m leaving now.”
“Were you able to find it?”
“No, but I left a message at the cinema department. I’ll follow up in the morning.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll find it. Just come home.”
“I’m on my way. Love you.”
“Love you more, baby,” he says. I hang up and join the others still watching TV.
I place a twenty-dollar tip on the counter. “That’s for you, Kate. And thank you for being so nice.”
“That’s a nice tip.”
“I was a waitress before I met my husband. At night, so I could go to auditions during the day. I lived for tips.”
“You get home safe.”
Ron sidles up next to me, and I hold my breath. “Hey, Regina. We need to stay in touch. I might be able to help you.”
“Help me what?”
“You know, help you with Robert’s case. Now, I can’t make any promises, but I know some people who might be in the know.” He looks over his bony shoulder at the twenty-dollar bill on the counter. “It might cost a little somethin’ somethin’, but it might be worth it. You know, to get justice.”
I think about it, wondering if he’s on the up and up. But what would it hurt? “You have a phone?”
“Sure do.” He takes a beat-up flip phone out of his pocket. “What’s your number?” I give it to him, and he gives me his. “Let’s touch base later in the week. I need a few days to talk to some people.”
“Okay. I have to go.”
“Let me walk you to your car,” he says, grabbing his tattered raincoat. “You got an umbrella? I know you sistahs don’t like gettin’ your hair wet. By the way, I like your cornrows.”
“Thank you. My umbrella blew away, but I’m good.”
“How old are you now? You look twenty-five. Black don’t crack.”
“I’m forty-two. And black doesn’t crack, but it does sag,” I say, hoping he only smells like crap and that he’s not full of it. Saying that I look twenty-five, I’m not so sure at this point.
Chapter 7
Gretchen
Our garage door opens with a grind—starting, stopping, starting again, and finally opening wide enough for me to park the white Subaru my father drove for five years before giving it to me. I press the remote clipped to the visor, and the door slams shut. Lance, his arms folded over his chest, stands in the door between the garage and condo. I exit the car, and he approaches me.
“I need to fix that,” he says. He gives me a lackluster hug. I recognize it. It’s the one I get when he’s dog-tired. He grabs my purse and tote. “It sounds like it’s had a day worse than both of ours.” He enters, then looks over his shoulder. “I have the fireplace blazing. You look like you need thawing out.”
“I’m glad the storm has stopped,” I say, reaching for my little treasure. I follow him inside and lock the door. He’s right—I’m freezing. I rush to the living room, clutching the water bottle like it’s the last life jacket on the Titanic. I collapse onto the plush area rug and turn my face toward the fire’s warmth. “This feels so good.”
Lance sits in a chair next to the sofa. “What’s that?” he says.
“What’s what?”
“In your hand.”
“Oh … uh … one of the actors left it behind.” I’m not sure if I should tell him about my out-of-body experience. Lance is a science teacher. When it comes to the supernatural or otherworldly phenomena, he’s the poster child for skeptics. If I tell him I went into a trance and became Him in my dreams, he’d demand I see a head doctor. I have to broach this subject strategically.
“Why do you have it?” He cranes his neck, attempting to get a look at it.
“So it isn’t misplaced. I’m sure whoever it belongs to will contact the cinema department, and when they do, I’ll drop it off.”
He gives me the look he does when he’s wondering if I’m breaking the vow we made to each other when we started dating in our sophomore year of college. I’m not lying. It was left behind. But I’m not elaborating.
“Can I see it?”
“There’s nothing to see. It’s an old water bottle.”
“You’re not holding it like it’s an ‘old water bottle.’ Why did you even bring it in the house? Why not leave it in the car? What’s really going on?” He lies down next to me, and I jump up. “Where are you going now?”
“You’re right—I should leave it in the car.” I rush to the garage, toss the bottle on the driver’s seat, and return to the living room. I stand over Lance, who’s sprawled on the floor. He motions for me to lie down next to him. I do so, tentatively.
“I can’t believe this,” he says.
“What?”
“That you’re here, lying next to me in front of the fireplace, awake. Hi, I’m Lance Burke.”
“Hi, I’m Gretchen Holloway.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, chuckling.
“It’s nice to meet you too,” I say, thinking about the day Patty told me about the good-looking blond guy she felt would be perfect for my first project in my multicamera TV workshop class. I planned to create a sitcom pilot about a guy from New York who moves to Los Angeles to break into the film industry. She saw Lance in the campus bookstore wearing an I Love New York sweatshirt, and she approached him and asked if he would be open to doing my film. He told her no, that he was a sophomore education major and had no interest in acting. Then she showed him my picture, and suddenly he had a change of heart. He happened to be a natural, and my project was a hit. The day we wrapped, he asked me on a date. I remember hesitating, thinking that it could start a bad precedent. I didn’t want to be a director who gets intimately involved with her leading men. But Lance wouldn’t take no for an answer.
******
Standing in the American Airlines terminal at Boston Logan International Airport, I still couldn’t believe I was on my way to Gillette Stadium, to see Tom Brady in all his glory. Lance, who’d insisted on payin
g for everything, just stared at me brimming with excitement.
“Lance, this is amazing.”
“You’re amazing, Gretchen.”
Our eyes locked and our lips followed. After several minutes, I moved out of his embrace to catch my breath. For an instant, my mother’s voice rang in my head: Gretchen, you barely know the man, and you’re leaving the state with him. My father, however, was all for it. He’d run a background check on Lance and discovered that my suitor had a clean record and wealthy parents.
“The game starts in a couple of hours. We’d better head out,” he said, gesturing toward the man dressed in a black suit, who’s holding a sign that said Lance & Gretchen.
The ride to the stadium was a blast. Lance and I talked nonstop, and he admitted that he’d pumped Patty for information about me. It was easy being with him. The connection was electric. He told me that his mother was from Los Angeles and that she’d moved to New York after meeting his father at USC. He said his mother used to talk about Los Angeles with so much affection, he grew to love it by osmosis. We shared our plans and dreams for the future and how we wanted to give back to the less fortunate. Lance lit up when he talked about his love for children. He wanted to make a difference in people’s lives, and his passion for education equaled my passion for filmmaking. We agreed that we were fortunate to have discovered early what we wanted to do in life and that we had an opportunity to pursue our dreams.
The car pulled up to the stadium, and Lance and I, dressed in Tom Brady jerseys, emerged from the sedan arm in arm. At that moment, I was already falling for Lance, and falling hard.
******
“Red?”
“Huh?”
“Where were you off to this time?”
“Our first date.”
Lance grabs my hand and squeezes it. I tense. I want to relax and hang out with him, but I need to reach out to the actors who were at the audition today, to see if any of them left the water bottle. It’s almost 10:00 p.m., too late to make calls. But I’m desperate to know who knows my Him, my Robert.
“I asked you to tell me about the auditions. I’ve been waiting all day to hear how they went.”
I sit up and wrap my arms around my bent legs, forcing myself to stay in the moment. I notice Lance trying to keep his eyes open. Poor guy’s exhausted. I nudge him with my foot. “Turn over,” I say as I scoot next to him.
“What’s up?”
“You need a massage.”
“You haven’t done that in ages.”
“You’ve had a rough day. I want you to have a better night.” He turns over, and I rub his shoulders and back. “What happened with the bomb threats and the parents?”
“That feels wonderful.” He falls silent, and I wonder if he’s dozed off. After a deep exhale, he says, “Oh, yeah, the bomb threats. They turned out to be bogus, and the parents got their kids back in one piece. The so-called terrorists were homegrown. Two high school punks acting on a dare. The idiots posted the nefarious plot on Facebook and Instagram. You’d think they’d know better, since kids are constantly getting arrested for making threats against their schools. They were probably high or plastered. At any rate, they were taken into custody. It was all over the news. They should get life in prison just for causing the traffic jams. It took me two hours to get home.”
“Shut the hell up. Wow. Same here. Traffic was horrendous. But the auditions were great. I have two people in mind for the part of Sandra and two people for the part of Robert.” Dammit. I didn’t mean to say that.
“Robert? When did this happen? I can’t believe you named him. Why Robert?”
“Umm … It just came to me.”
“Interesting. So when are the callbacks?”
“Monday. I have to view today’s auditions tomorrow. We videotaped them. Speaking of which, it’s getting late. You have school tomorrow. Have you eaten?”
“I ate leftovers. I left some for you,” he says through a yawn.
“I’m good,” I say, looking at the clock over the mantel. My gaze dips to the photos of our parents. His are mid-sixties, old money, conservative, Waspy. Mine are mid-fifties, small-business owners, hippie throwbacks. I’m meeting his parents for the first time this December, when we visit them in New York for Christmas. Well, the first time in person. We’ve spoken on the phone and FaceTimed, but we’ve never been in the same room.
“How’s that?” I say, pressing on the small of his back, ending the massage.
“I feel so relaxed now. That was great.” He turns over, and our eyes meet. “What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”
I look around our art deco living room—dark wood floor, curved chairs, circular coffee table—distracted again, pushing away thoughts about the water bottle and the Patriots versus Broncos game I taped. I smile at Lance. Before I know it, the film will be finished, Christmas will be here, Lance will have my undivided attention, and I’ll finally meet his parents.
“What are you thinking?” he says again.
“I was thinking about Christmas.”
“What about Christmas?” he says, sitting up, his face contorting. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to cancel because of the film.” Momentarily stumped by his reaction, I give him a blank stare. Before I respond, he says, “Scratch that. Forget what I just said. If you have to cancel, I get it. It’s okay. With everything that happened today, I’ve decided to be more supportive. I don’t like who I’m becoming. I’m turning into my mother!”
The room fills with laughter.
“Lance, I’m not canceling. Speaking of your mother, I was thinking about how I’m looking forward to meeting her and your father in person—and to spending quality time with you.”
“You’re sure you don’t need to cancel?”
“No—stop it. I’m not canceling.”
“All right. You know what sounds great right now?”
“What?” Please don’t say sex.
“A good night’s sleep. I’m wiped out,” he says, standing and yawning.
Thank goodness. “Mind if I join you later?”
“Sure, but I’ll probably be asleep.” He kisses me and heads toward the staircase. “I’m happy you’re not canceling. Love you. Thanks again for the massage.”
“Love you more.”
After a few minutes, I stand and walk to the staircase to make sure he’s gone, then creep back to the garage, retrieve the water bottle, pluck my tote from the kitchen table, and dash to my office. I flip on the light and take a deep breath, my eyes scanning the sky-blue walls covered in photos, posters, inspirational sayings, and Post-it notes.
A life-size cutout of Tom Brady stands in the corner. My father gifted it to me for my sixteenth birthday. He says he’s to blame for my football obsession. When my mother was pregnant with me, he bribed her, so she’d watch the games with him. He insists that every time the Patriots, his favorite team, scored a touchdown, I’d kick. My mother says he’s exaggerating. And of course, I was supposed to have been a boy. He was determined that my mother birth a mini-him. My nursery was blue and decked out in Patriots paraphernalia. When I built the story around my mystery guy, no one questioned my decision to make Him a football player.
I set the water bottle and my cell phone next to the mouse on my desk and drop my tote on the floor. Excited, heat surges through me. I take off my hoodie and jeans and toss them onto the cot against the wall. I sniff the tank top I’m wearing. Jeez, I smell. But first things first.
I sit in front of my computer and power it up. My office is my sanctuary. I have two file cabinets filled with screenplays, term papers, research, and a million other things. A small flat-screen TV is on the wall above my portable fridge. One side of the room is cluttered with books from floor to ceiling.
From my tote I pull out the folder containing the actors’ contact info. I notice the time on the computer. Though it’s too late to call anyone, it’s not too late to send a group email. By morning, everyone should have responded. I might ev
en hear from someone tonight. Most actors are glued to their email, hoping to land an audition or hear news about a callback. The cycle never stops, but it does slow down during the holiday season.
I assemble a distribution list, then compose the email.
From: [email protected]
To: HIMActors
Subject: Project HIM
Good evening. First, I want to thank you all for auditioning today for my thesis film titled HIM. Jocelyn and I were extremely impressed with your work. As mentioned, callbacks will be next Monday. If you’re not chosen, please know it’s not a reflection of your abilities. Many factors go into casting, and not all of them have to do with talent.
On a side note, someone at the auditions left a water bottle with the photo of a young man on the front of it. I believe it may have been inadvertently placed in the trash. I have it in my possession. Please reply to this email if it belongs to you, and I will make sure it’s returned.
Again, thank you for your interest in project HIM.
Good luck,
Gretchen Holloway
I hit send, and after a couple of seconds, my computer beeps. I wasn’t expecting a response that fast. I click my inbox and see three delivery failure emails. Hopefully, those are the only ones. Sometimes they take a while to come through. Damn. I check the email addresses, and they’re correctly typed. I’ll have to call these people, along with the five other actors I don’t have emails for. I perk up at the sound of another email notification.
From: [email protected].
To: [email protected]
Subject: Project HIM
Hello, Gretchen. So great to hear from you. Thank you again for all the wonderful things you said about my audition. I look forward to receiving more info on the callbacks, and no, I didn’t leave anything behind. Good luck finding the owner.
The Truth About Gretchen Page 5
