Windwhistle Bone

by Richard Trainor

  “What are you doing? The limo will be here in ten minutes.”

  He was looking out the window, listening to a mockingbird going through its recitation of imitation. He turned from the window and looked at Vera, gorgeous in a bottle-green strapless by Versace, backless almost to her bottom.

  “I was thinking,” said Ram. “About where we started and where we are now and what brought us to this point.”

  “We don’t have time for that now. We’re supposed to make our entrance at the Egyptian in forty minutes.”

  “I was thinking how ironic it was—” began Ram.

  “We can talk about it later,” Vera said, her eyes blinking and darting as she ran through her mental checklist of last-minute details that still needed attention before they left. And through the rest of that evening, now a few years past, while Ram shook hands with directors and producers and screenwriters and stars, trading compliments and small talk at the post-premiere party, the indelible images of what they’d been and what they’d become revealed themselves as though they were two portraits standing alongside one another: one a pen-and-ink drawing by Grosz, noisy with discussion, crowded with ideas, and congested with characters like Mad Michael and Tomas and Peach and Oscar Sands, all eager to speak and act, all of them unpredictably, as unpredictable and spontaneous and inspired as the ideas that respectively seized them and to which they’d always give rein. The other was a Kodachrome snapshot whose component parts were printed on the side of it and whose prime appeal was the predictability of the effect it produced for its intended audience. The two portraits—the motile black-and-white etching, the still-life color animation that was busy but lifeless—shimmered and projected themselves in front of Ram, all through the evening, until he and Vera got home. Vera brought up the topic of conversation they were having just before the limo arrived. “You had something on your mind when we were getting ready, baby. What was it?”

  “I can’t remember,” Ram lied, not wanting to remove the glow from Vera’s evening. The premiere had proven popular with audience and critics alike, and tomorrow’s reviews would reflect that. Vera looked at Ram quizzically as he sat taking off his shoes sitting on the edge of the bed. Then the memory of her triumphant evening overtook her and she beamed at her husband.

  “We were killer tonight, Ram. Everybody said so. Even the reviewer for your magazine told me that, and he usually doesn’t like me.”

  Ram raised his eyebrow. He looked at Vera and smiled.

  “Yeah, Golden State knows you’re a pistol, Vera,” he said dreamily.

  Vera still beaming looked down at him.

  “What’s the matter, baby? Aren’t you happy for me? Happy for us?”

  “I am,” Ram said, putting on his best smile.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “A stray thought. Probably doesn’t matter much really.”

  “Okay,” was her quick reply.

  …Ram heard the sound and knew that Vera had entered. It was a telltale auditory phenomenon that always attended Vera’s entrance into a crowded room, and Ram was used to it by then. The sudden drop in volume of the ambient noise of silverware on china, the falloff in heat of heated conversations, a few gasps, an “Oh my God!,” an overall general expiration like the background noise of air leaving a tire and then the curious visual phenomenon that always followed: the heads turning robot-like in their direction, toward the stimulus that inspired it, following Vera’s movement as she passed this way and that. Then the noise volume would increase, the former heat of the conversations transforming into whispers, “My God! It’s her!”

  When she reached the table, the noise was burbling again, an occasional bravo or a wolf-whistle thrown in. Ram sat grinning as Vera approached. Phil and Eric and Jill and Emmy rose to greet her and air-kiss her. When they were done, Vera came to Ram, took him by the hair and kissed him with a great display of passion. The crowd went nuts, rising to give her a standing ovation. When they were done kissing, Vera turned back to the gawking room and waved, grinning as she did. Ram felt no real passion in the embrace; it was all show, strictly for the crowd and whatever media were in attendance. A moment later, the ambient noise returned to its formal level, or as close to it as it would get until Vera and Ram and friends made their exit, and from the look on Phil Le Gris’s face, Ram knew that was imminent. It made Phil uncomfortable when the scrutiny got too close or personal and the attention grew too focused. It felt too much like work to him, and Phil liked his private time with friends to remain private. His eyes were darting about. Ram gestured toward him and Phil got it. “The check please,” he said to the passing waitress.

  “She just got here,” the waitress said peevishly.

  Le Gris shot her a withering look. The check arrived five minutes later. A minute after that, a nearby patron snatched it from Phil’s hand and said “Compliments of Ronnie Driver Productions.”

  A minute later, the six of them were walking out the back door giving onto the alley where an idling black Mercedes 600 waited.

  They taxied Emmy and Eric to The Marmont where they were meeting friends and went on to the old Hollywood establishment of Musso-Frank’s for dinner. They had fresh halibut at Musso’s this evening, along with their usual steaks and ribs and lamb chops. Ram ordered a filet mignon, Eric had a Porterhouse, Phil had a half-rack of baby-back ribs and the women all had fish. The salad special, of which everybody partook, was a delicious Waldorf, with fresh walnuts and raisins. The champagne flowed, the laughter increased in volume and the stories got racier or more serious. The waiter was clearing away their dinner plates and asked if they would be having dessert, which everybody declined but Jill, ordering a crème brulée. The waiter lingered a moment, eyeing Vera, until Phil stared back at him just as hard. “Just one crème brulée, if you please.” The waiter shuffled off and Phil shook his head. “I imagine you get tired of stuff like that,” he said to Vera.

  “Only if it starts getting personal,” Vera said. “Gawking doesn’t bother me, and sometimes, I enjoy hearing some of the things people say about the films I’ve made and the characters I’ve played. Some of the stuff you can hardly imagine.”

  “Robert Mitchum told us the same thing,” said Jill. “We met him at L’Hermitage a while back and became friends with him. Tell Vera about that.”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t care,” said Phil.

  “No, I want to know,” said Vera, seeing Jill’s disappointment and her husband’s dismissal of her. “I love Bob Mitchum, always have, especially Cape Fear and Night of the Hunter. Tell me what he said.”

  “Okay, okay,” sighed Phil. “Anyway, we went to The Hermitage for drinks after dinner—”

  “—L’Hermitage,” Jill interrupted.

  Phil rolled his eyes.

  “Okay, L’Hermitage, and we’re sitting there at a table, me, Jill, Eric, and Emmy, Duncan and Donna and another one of Donna’s friend, Sara, an absolute babe by the way, and I see this guy sitting at the bar in this absolutely killer dove-gray suit drinking a cocktail and then I see who it is: it’s Robert Fucking Mitchum for Chrissake! Anyway, we call the cocktail waitress over and tell her that we’d like to buy Mr. Mitchum a drink, and she goes off, tells the bartender and the bartender brings him a cocktail. Mitchum gets up with his drink and comes right over to our table and asks if we’d mind if he joins us. He sits down and one thing leads to another—”

  “—One drink leads to another,” said Jill.

  “—Right, one drink leads to another—”

  “—And the next thing we know, we’re all in Robert Mitchum’s suite at L’Hermitage—”

  “Are you gonna finish the story, Jill, or am I?”

  “I’m sorry, honey. You finish it.”

  Phil paused before taking up the narrative again. “Anyway, one thing leads to another. Up we go to Mitchum’s hotel room, which he’s got totally stocked with booze of every kind—and we’re drinking aquavit by then—and pretty soon, someone brings out the blow and we start on th
at, and Mitchum joins in. The conversation is zinging all around on all kinds of topics: Howard Hughes, how to poison people with untraceable poisons, and how to kill somebody without leaving a mark—really weird, out there kind of shit, probably due to the combo of the blow and the alcohol—when finally, the conversation comes around to acting, which Mitchum apparently doesn’t think too highly of. Every time he says the word acting, he sort of makes this face with his hands in a feminine way and says acting in this put on voice, like it’s totally fake—”

  “Which it mostly is,” Vera interrupted.

  “Right… and anyway, where was I going with this? Oh yeah, so anyway, what Mitchum said was that he learned to stop reading critics after making Out of the Past. He said that he went to a press screening for the movie and the critics didn’t know what to make of it and their reviews were all over the map. Some thought it was great. Others hated it. When the picture opened, Mitchum saw it in a theater in Texas where he was making another film, and from then on, he said he only trusted audience’s reactions. What Mitchum said was ‘I know that a film is good by how many people get up to go to the bathroom and how long they’re gone from their seats. I can tell by that and their breathing. The better the film, the less they breathe, or the less you hear them,’ he said.”

  “I never thought of that until you mentioned it, but, yes, I can see that’s so. I’d have to say I agree with him on that,” Vera said, leaning over the table toward Phil.

  “Then, Mitchum couldn’t get it up with Sara… Tell Vera what he said.”

  Phil and Ram looked at Jill uncertainty.

  “Yes, what did he say?” said Vera.

  Phil paused a moment, then slipped into a Robert Mitchum impression, dropping his eyes and half-closing them so they were hooded.

  “That’s the first-time the Old Bull’s ever quit on me,” he said.

  The four exploded in laughter, Vera especially. She squeezed Phil’s hand and smiled at him, then beamed at Jill, locking eyes with her while they laughed together. At that moment, it was reminiscent of the gone days in Sagrada, when they cut a wide swath and lived for moments like those recalled. They had once shared a time and a world in common, but the times when those orbits were synchronous were rare now, thought Ram, who was eager to prolong them for as long as possible before they faded altogether. Did Jill feel as Ram did? Did Phil? Possibly, he couldn’t say. He knew that Vera didn’t. For her, it was acting, and her performance this evening was magnificent.

  “Vera looks great, Ram. She’s in good form tonight. She seems happy,” said Phil as they sat outside by the Marquis swimming pool having a nightcap. The women were inside, talking fashion, and Jill was showing Vera sketches of the costumes she designed for Michelle Pfeiffer and Uma Thurman in Valmont, which was shooting in two weeks and would take her and Phil to France.

  Ram stubbed out his cigarette. “You think so?”

  “Absolutely, I do, and what’s with you, dude? You seemed lost in space all evening.”

  “I wish I could put my finger on it. There isn’t any particular issue. It’s nothing between Vera and I. Something seemed to snap when I was up north.”

  “In Red Bluff?”

  “That’s when I noticed it.”

  “With your aunt?”

  “Nah. That was just the usual garbage. It was something else.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, hard to say. Maybe it’s the work, maybe too much work, too much travel or something.”

  “Dude, you’re kicking ass! You’re one of the hottest writers in California.”

  “Writing what? It’s just some story on a politician, or a movie star, or some old director reminiscing about days gone by. I don’t know, man.”

  “You’re just tired.”

  “You’re right on that score. I am tired, but it’s not just fatigue.”

  “Then you’re being overdramatic.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Remember, you’re supposed to be grateful. Isn’t that part of your program?”

  “It is. You’re right. I should be grateful.”

  “Damn right you should be. You’re healthy and you’ve got a great career and a beautiful home and a gorgeous wife who’s a big star. What more could you want?”

  Ram lit his cigarette, leaned back in his chair, looked at his surroundings and inhaled. He was dead quiet. A few wisps of cloud inched across the waning moon. A passing siren brought him back to the moment, followed by Vera calling down to him from the balcony above. He looked up and saw her outline alongside Jill’s half-lit form. Vera’s voice drifted down, beckoning them to come upstairs and say goodnight.

  When the Le Gris’s were gone, Vera went to the bathroom and drew a hot bath for herself while Ram lay on the bed reviewing the Bailey file, making notes for his interview, talking with Vera through the open door.

  “Would you bring in the little bag?”

  “Which one?” Ram called back.

  “It’s in the closet, on the shelf there, the Vuitton bag.”

  Ram put his papers aside and fetched it.

  “Your friends seem to be doing well,” Vera said sweetly. “Jill especially. She’s attracting notice as a designer. Everybody says so. And Phil, just what is it that he does?”

  Ram sighed. “He’s in animation, Vera.”

  “I must have forgotten. Does he draw the cartoons then?”

  “They’re not cartoons, Vera. They’re animated features. Phil handles the marketing for the company and contributes to the scripts.”

  “How interesting. You mean they actually have scripts for cartoons?”

  Ram let it drop.

  “Don’t you want to join me?” she cooed.

  “I have to review this material for the story I’m working on.”

  “On your glorious Gold Rush family?”

  “No. It’s the Barry Bailey thing. I have to interview him tomorrow and I’m preparing my questions.”

  “Ah yes, politics.”

  Ram was about to let that one go too but knew if he did, there would be more swipes. He put the file down, resolved to be blunt. When he reached the bathroom, the curtain was drawn in front of the tub. He pulled it back to where Vera reposed. Scented candles ringed the tub and she lay with her head on an inflated bath cushion. The candlelight made her corneas luminous and the yellow light contrasted with the drying green mud of her facial mask. She smiled and the mask cracked, the green flakes falling into the steaming water.

  “Are you coming in to join me?”

  Ram stood above her, looking down, considering the proposition. If he resisted, there would be more interruptions. Vera wanted his attention and wouldn’t rest until he gave it to her. Ram masked the response that prompted his entry, smiling, and Vera smiled back at him, further cracking the mask. Ram stripped quickly, entered the steaming tub and took his wife violently from behind, a fistful of hair in his left hand. She turned to look at him taking her thusly, a rivulet of drool from her mouth dampening the mask and making it a shade darker. Ram closed his eyes to shut out the image and kept the revulsion at bay until he came a moment before she did.

  That night, she slept like a baby, not noticing when Ram slipped out at six. When she awoke, a note was atop her bedside table. “I had to leave before breakfast,” it read. “I’ll catch up with you after the interview, Love, Ram.” She smiled, appreciating her husband’s thoughtfulness, then called room service, ordering breakfast, and drank a large cup of honey sweetened herbal tea specifically prescribed for her vocal cords by a homeopathic physician named Doctor Wu. It took her an hour to dress, and when she was finally satisfied with her ensemble, Vera called down to her driver and told him to come up and escort her to the limo.

  Ram sat in front of the computer in the downstairs office facing onto Humbug Creek, staring into the screen, the quivering lines of text staring back at him as he tried to find the appropriate phrase or image or metaphor to begin the as yet un-composed missing section that his new edito
r, Hans Heiman, wanted from him before he put the Barry Bailey story to bed. He had been in this posture for three days now, trying to start the ending Heiman wanted, where Senator Barry Bailey would launch a bid for the presidency.

  “He hasn’t even been elected Senator yet, and Barry’s got so much baggage that the jury’s still out on whether he’ll win, but President? I think that’s far-fetched. So do most of my sources. You’re dreaming,” Ram told Heiman when the editor suggested the close.

  But Heiman wouldn’t budge, and the rest of the editorial staff backed him over Ram. So Ram sat there, blinking at the screen, hoping the answer would somehow appear; that an electric current would overtake him and propel his fingers to compose the scenario that his rational mind resisted as folly.

  …He’d been back at The Arbor for two weeks now, arriving on a Friday afternoon after being picked up at San Francisco Airport by Carl Beaufort, another new friend of Ram’s from Sagrada, who was house-sitting for him while he was away. When they pulled into the driveway, Ram saw two other cars he recognized. He turned toward Beaufort who shrugged. “Fozetta said it was okay. He said you gave him an open invitation.”

  “For when I’m here alone, without Vera,” said Ram, shaking his head and lighting a cigarette. “She can’t stand him.”

  “Well, he’s here. So is his girlfriend, and his brother, and his brother’s girlfriend.”

  “His timing sucks. I’m on double deadline.”

  By the time he and Beaufort unloaded the car, Ram was able to compose himself into civility. Carlo Fozetta and his entourage were on the top deck. They were sitting under the umbrella of the cafe table. A bottle of Dickel Brothers sat atop it, a mirror with lines scrawled atop it lay nearby. The ashtray was filled with cigarette butts and the outside speakers were cranking “Was Not Was.” The party didn’t take notice of Ram until he’d come back outside after turning down the stereo. Fozetta looked up and saw Ram in the lit doorway. “Hey, Ram,” he said.