Jeremy looks nervous.
But not nervous enough, I think. He stands too close to Miller, smiling now and puffing out his chest stupidly.
You nasty boy, says Miller. You nasty little pup.
Take it easy, says Jeremy. Take a pill. You’re going to pop a blood vessel.
Easy, says Miller.
What did you think? says Jeremy, softly.
Miller stares at him, his jaw bulging. I think we have a failure to communicate.
But the scene, says Jeremy. What about the scene?
The scene, says Miller. The scene was ill-advised.
I’m trying to help, says Jeremy. I thought another character or two would add depth, man.
Miller is spitting, now. This is my project, my fucking project.
Jeremy frowns. Phineas said it was okay with him.
Oh, is that right?
I shrug and smile and say nothing, looking from one to the other. I wouldn’t mind seeing Miller throw a massive hissy fit, personally. I think I would enjoy it quite a lot. I also think it would be best to push his buttons carefully.
Don’t get waxy, says Jeremy.
Miller smiles, a horrible gray smile. There is a long, shimmering silence. I light another cigarette and wonder if I should say something to ease the tension, or something to aggravate it.
I loved the monkey, I say. That was a nice touch.
It was a pure moment, says Jeremy. And purely coincidental.
That monkey saved your life today, says Miller. He turns and walks inside.
Jeremy looks at me. What did you think?
It was a hell of a nice scene, I say. But apparently not appreciated.
Yeah, he says. The old man is mental.
Maybe. But I would be careful with him.
Jeremy shrugs. It’s boring to be careful all the time.
He strolls inside, humming. I flick my cigarette and follow, slowly. Huck with the camera is a shadow behind us. The wheels are turning in my head. Miller is vulnerable. Daphne is stretched out on the stainless steel island in the kitchen under bright, white lights. Jude crouches over her. She is sewing up the cuts in Daphne’s head and face with black thread. Daphne has a big loopy smile on her face.
Miller stands behind her, his face recomposed.
Oops, says Jeremy. I’m sorry but I just sewed your eye shut….
Jude gives him a dark look but says nothing. Jeremy opens the refrigerator, still humming. He tells Huck to get some close-up footage of Jude sewing up Daphne. Jude regards him with her sleepy, assassin’s eyes.
What happened out there? says Jude.
Miller and Jeremy exchange glances but neither of them says boo.
Jude looks at me. Well? she says.
My brother got a little…extreme with his affections.
Do we have any ice cream? says Jeremy.
Jude looks at Miller. I didn’t realize there was a brother in the picture.
There’s not, says Miller. He makes a throat-slashing gesture to Huck, who promptly lowers the camera. Jeremy is cheerfully preparing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
You’ve made an error of judgment, says Miller.
What’s your problem? says Jeremy.
People skills, says Miller. I have poor people skills.
Jeremy shrugs. You know what this picture really needs?
What? he says.
Dwarfs, says Jeremy.
Miller takes a deep breath, apparently deciding to ignore him. He leans over to get a better look at Daphne, who remains blissful as Jude patches her face together.
How is she? he says.
Minor cuts, she says. But a lot of them. Her face is a mess.
This reminds me that I have a lovely black eye. It looks like I was in a bar fight and no one has even mentioned it. What’s the world coming to.
Dwarfs on motorcycles, says Jeremy. Doing stunts and such.
Molly mutters at him to shut up. He winks at me, his mouth full of peanut butter.
Are you high? I say.
Miller sighs. He tells us to ignore him. Jeremy just wants attention, he says.
Jeremy, I say. I want you to apologize to John.
Jeremy laughs, insolently. Miller turns to look at him, a gruesome smile grafted to his face. Jeremy shrugs and offers him a bite of his sandwich and Miller punches him hard, in the stomach. Jeremy is caught completely off guard and goes down in a spastic wheezing heap. Everyone is distracted and I take the opportunity to fuck off. I grab the bread and peanut butter and head downstairs to look in on the boy.
twenty-nine.
THE BOY IS ASLEEP, or appears to be. I crouch beside the bed. His eyes flicker. Long dark lashes that remind me of the wings of a dying moth. There is a spot of blood on his pillow, as if he’s had a nosebleed. I ask him if he feels okay and he doesn’t seem to hear me. There’s a slow trickle of yellow liquid laced with blood coming from his left ear. I touch his face and his skin is so hot. His breathing is shallow and I can barely find his pulse. I pick him up and take the stairs two at a time, yelling for Jude.
I carry the boy into the futuristic living room. The stage lights are blinding. I lay the boy down gingerly on the chrome loveseat. He wears new brown corduroys and a white T-shirt that says there’s no escape from New York. He wears black Chuck Taylors, new and unlaced. His face is pale and the chrome beneath him is polished so bright he looks like he’s asleep on a bed of glass. I chew my fingernails a minute, staring at his shoes. I need to tie those laces before he steps on them and takes a spill. I need to tie those suckers into double knots. I drag my hand through my hair and it comes away dripping with sweat. I holler for Jude, again. I murder her name with my voice and just when I’m about to snap, she appears out of nowhere.
Relax, she says. You would think you’re the father.
What’s wrong with him?
How do I know? she says.
Jude eyes the child as if he is a piece of muddy firewood and she’s reluctant to touch him. But perhaps her ability to remain detached is for the best. She takes a breath, then bends to press her ear to his chest, listening to his lungs.
What is it?
Jude ignores me. Fucking stoic, she is. Now she uses a penlight to examine his eyes, to look into his ears. One by one, the others drift into the room. Molly sits close to me, but not too close. Her face is an unfamiliar mask. Her eyes are black with mascara, her lips painted red. Otherwise, she wears jeans and a T-shirt. Her face is disconcerting. Miller is muttering softly. It sounds like he is calculating figures, running numbers. But then I might be imagining that. Jeremy and Daphne barely pay any attention to us. They are at the bar, arguing in whispers about the proper ingredients for a margarita. Daphne looks like she was in a car wreck and I guess she was. The white bandages on her face are proof that she was chosen by the gods, that she was given one more day to live. Jude is peering into Sam’s little brown eyes as if they are a deep, dark wishing well and she is wondering just how much cash is down there.
Jude, I say. Talk to me.
I may be wrong, she says. He seems to have an ear infection, which is causing the fever.
The shit oozing from his ear, I say. That’s normal?
Drainage, she says. He probably burst his eardrum.
That’s bad, right? That’s bad.
It’s not the end of the world.
I stare at her. He needs his eardrum, I say.
The eardrum will repair itself.
He’s barely breathing.
Jude nods. I’m not sure what’s causing that. Maybe an allergic reaction.
I shake my head. The boy’s eyeball could be hanging out of his skull by a fucking bloody thread and butter wouldn’t melt on your tongue.
There’s no reason to get nasty.
No, I say. What are you going to do?
Jude stands up as if to go.
What are you doing? I say.
I’m going to the bathroom, she says. Will you please fucking relax. Have a drink, or something.
I would love a drink. I wish someone would bring me one.
Molly slips away and everything seems to go on autopilot until she returns. She hands me a glass of vodka, with ice.
Thank you, I say.
He watches too much television, says Molly. That’s what it is. When my baby comes, I won’t let her watch so much TV.
I glance at Molly and I feel like I just swallowed a bug.
You aren’t really pregnant, I say. You know that, right?
She stares at me for a moment too long. Of course, she says.
The boy is pale and catatonic against chrome. His breath comes thin and slow. The grim hiss of air seeping in and out of his lungs.
Does anyone have a cigarette, says Jude.
She stands over us, a small bottle of liquid Benadryl in one hand and a blue can of Pepsi in the other. There’s a white plastic eyedropper stuck between her lips like a cigar.
I can’t wait to hear your plan, I say.
Trust me, she says.
Jeremy brings over a glowing tray of margaritas. He gives Jude a cigarette and lights it for her. I try to meet his eye and now it occurs to me that there is a shadowy area of my mind that has somehow accepted him as a brother. I don’t like this idea and I remind myself to harden my heart against the script.
I have an overwhelming urge to get outside. To get the fuck away.
But I look around and the boy remains on the chrome loveseat, feverish and barely breathing. Molly is a ghost at the edge of my vision, her mouth so small and dark it might be a scar. Her hands fidgeting, fidgeting. I get the feeling she wants to hold my hand but is reluctant to do so, maybe because Jude is watching. Maybe because I just suggested that she’s nuts. Miller appears and reappears across from me, his eyes closed. Jeremy is whispering something apparently pornographic to Daphne and she is laughing, covering her wet mouth with her fist. I drain my vodka and place it carefully on the floor, then take one of the margaritas from Jeremy’s tray. There is thick salt around the mouth of the glass and I lick at it, hungry.
Jude lifts the boy into her lap and holds him so that he’s sitting up. She twice fills the eyedropper with liquid Benadryl and pushes it between Sam’s pale lips.
Jude looks at me. The antihistamine, she says. It will reduce the swelling in his ears.
And the Pepsi?
I don’t know, she says. The sugar and caffeine should give his heart a jumpstart and maybe that will help his breathing.
I nod, silent. It makes as much sense as anything.
Jude frowns. He needs antibiotics, probably.
He needs to see a doctor.
But we can’t take him to a doctor, says Jude. Her voice is slow and gentle, as if I am the child.
Jude begins to funnel Pepsi into the boy’s mouth, her eyes downcast and lips pursed. She blows softly on his face. He coughs and Pepsi dribbles between his open lips. She wipes it away with the back of her hand. How tender she is. I don’t quite recognize her.
Sam wakes up, now. The boy is disoriented and unhappy. He doesn’t like the idea that everyone is looking at him. I can sympathize. He turns his head and I don’t think he knows where he is. He doesn’t seem to recognize any of us and he does not come to me for comfort. He allows Jude to hold him, to wrap her arms around him. He rests his head on her shoulder, his eyes flat and glassy. Jude blows softly on his hair and whispers to him in a way that angers me. Because lately I want her to be the villain. I want her to be the one who dies in the end.
But the boy apparently feels safe with her. In another moment he is asleep again and I don’t know what to make of this. I put my hand on Jude’s thigh and I am confused, vaguely queasy. I don’t know if this is guilt or love. Her mouth twitches and now I think it’s a little bit of both. She glances down at my hand and I slowly withdraw it.
Miller is staring at Jude as if she has just grown a spotted tail. I reckon he thinks she’s gone soft on him. Jude stares back at him with eyes narrow and feral and I have a happy image of Miller waking up with his intestines spilling out of him in a rich steaming mass. I sip my margarita and look from one to the other. It occurs to me that I have been ignoring them lately and now I realize that I have no idea what manner of nastiness transpires between them in the dark. Jude stares and stares and Miller never turns his eyes away from her and after two or three minutes of savory, textured silence during which Jeremy and Daphne drift uneasily from the room, presumably to have sex without bloodshed, Jude passes the boy to Molly, who glows upon receiving him.
Do you see something green? she says to Miller.
He shrugs. Repent, he says. Repent, mother.
Molly walks slowly around the room, hugging young Sam to her chest. She sways back and forth, instinct kicking in. She begins to sing, softly. Momma’s gonna buy you a diamond ring. Her face is shadowy and blissful and I shake my head. Molly too is falling for the boy and I believe we are fucked, all of us. The boy is definitely getting to her. There are black streaks on her face.
Molly, I say. Your eyes are dripping.
What?
I take the boy from her. You’ve got black shit running down your face.
The mascara, she says. I forgot. We were getting ready to shoot a scene.
What scene?
You’re not in it, says Miller. Only the girls.
That reminds me, says Molly. I want to talk about the nudity.
What about it?
The script says that Jude and I are sitting around the bedroom, right. We’re drinking wine and smoking cigarettes and having a raunchy conversation about sex.
Yeah? says Miller.
Jude is topless in the scene, says Molly. Which seems unrealistic, frankly. And I’m supposed to be bottomless.
Bottomless? I say.
Jude laughs. She takes the margarita from my hand and finishes it off.
Two girls getting drunk and friendly, says Miller. A prelude to sex.
Maybe, says Jude. But nobody sits around bottomless and chatting.
Would it be more realistic if there was a pillow fight?
This is hopeless, says Molly.
Okay, I say. How about we talk about reality for a while?
What did you have in mind? says Miller.
The ransom, I say. I think we should make the ransom demand today.
No, he says. That’s impossible.
Why?
Because we have just begun shooting The Velvet.
Jesus. The film is a farce. It makes no fucking sense and we should end it now.
Miller stares at me, his eyes mild. Whatever you say.
The boy is sick, I say. He needs a doctor.
He frowns. Don’t you have faith in Jude?
Jude strokes my thigh, her hand venturing close to my crotch. Molly turns away and goes to the bar. The sound of ice in a glass. I shift the boy in my arms. He’s heavy. Miller lights a cigarette and watches my face. Blue smoke whispers between us. Jude strokes my thigh and I stare into the distance. I stare into the past, into the future. I consider the word faith.
Miller shrugs. Neither here nor there. We will make the ransom demand when I say so.
And if he dies in your basement?
Then it gets more interesting, doesn’t it?
thirty.
BACK THROUGH THE RABBIT HOLE and down the stairs. I tuck the boy into bed and arrange his pillows around him. Sam is breathing well now. But his body is too warm and the hair at the back of his neck is damp. I settle onto the floor with the remote control and flick on the television. I watch cartoons for a while but they depress me for some reason. I surf away and come upon a rerun of Starsky & Hutch squatting on some channel ominously called TV Land. The implications of such a channel are too brutal to wrap my noodle around and anyway Huggy Bear is giving a wildly animated, hopelessly rhetorical, and truly surreal speech about human rights. He’s wearing a maroon suit and a pink tie and a big straw hat and his eyes are bugging out of his tiny head. I’m good for about five minutes of this before
I freak out and am forced to flee TV Land. I cruise the TV universe until I find a ball game, the Red Sox and Yankees.
This has potential tragedy written all over it and I promptly mute the sound.
I am tempted to skulk upstairs and get a beer and a sandwich but I’m in no mood to run into any of the others. I don’t want to know what they’re up to and besides, beer would only make me want a cigarette and I would rather not smoke around the boy. I fetch a juice box from the little fridge and settle in to watch the Yankees massacre the Sox.
Baseball slows the vital functions and in no time I am dreamy, contemplative.
I contemplate the boy. He is approximately forty-nine pounds of flesh and bone. Blond hair and big brown eyes nearly black. He has eyes that could swallow you. His nose is the size of a button, the size of my thumbnail. His unflawed skin is somewhere between pink and pale yellow, the flesh of a peach. His hands are devastating. His hands could make a monster weep. He smells like the sun, like the fine sparkle of dust swimming in a burst of sunlight. He smells like a color you can’t name.
He breathes, in and out. Five years of life, barely a ripple.
But there is some serious voodoo packed into his small body and it’s not just him, but all children. There is nothing on the planet quite like a sick or injured child, a frightened child. Jude is a cool hand and usually nothing touches her, nothing moves her. But I could see the boy tugging freely at her cold, broken heart.
This is something that fills my head, sometimes. The idea that I broke her heart somehow.
I fall asleep next to the boy and dream that we are lost in the woods together. Sam is unchanged. He is five years old, with long blond hair. I am nine, his brother. The trees are dense and twisted, with thin black branches that hang just above our heads and tangle together like terrible hair, blotting out the sky. Unseen wolves howling in the dark, their voices ghostly.
Sam is brave, though.
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