The Last Guest

by Tess Little

  “He was never—”

  “Look, I’m not saying you’re hiding anything on purpose or that you’re trying to misdirect this investigation. We just want to build an accurate picture. I want you to know that you can trust us.”

  “I meant what I said, he was a wonderful—”

  “Was he?”

  I avoided her piercing stare. “I mean, Richard had a temper, yes, but who doesn’t? He was a man with a lot of professional stresses, he carried a lot of responsibilities, and sometimes he struggled with…”

  “With substance abuse.”

  The male cop was watching us, back and forth: a spectator at a tennis match.

  “Yes, and, you know, a lot of people do.”

  “Not all addicts become violent, Ms. Bryant Bell. They can push their loved ones away, they can lie and manipulate to get what they want, what they need. Believe me, we’ve seen it all in here. However—”

  “But that’s exactly why I left him—my daughter…”

  “And how did it feel to see him return to his old habits?”

  “I told you, I was asleep. I didn’t—”

  (I just want to take the edge off, is that so awful?)

  Scott tried to interrupt us: “Officer, I think—”

  (I just want to take the edge off.)

  “They were still close, weren’t they? Your daughter and your ex-husband. How did that feel?”

  “He’s her father, I couldn’t stop—”

  “—her spending time with an addict?”

  “Okay, Officer, I think you’ve got all you need,” Scott said. “Now, we agreed—”

  “One more minute, sir,” she answered, then waited for my response.

  (One promise. I asked for one promise from you and—)

  “Ms. Bryant Bell?”

  “I didn’t let Richard have her until he was clean. She didn’t go stay with him until…”

  “But he still had a temper, didn’t he?”

  “Not with Lillie. I mean, not with us, Lillie loves—she loved him. And I’m sure she’s told you what a good father he was.”

  “Is that why you were seen in the hallway that night, arguing with Mr. Bryant about your daughter? He asked Lillie to lie to you, didn’t he? That’s what a waitress overheard.”

  Of course that argument had been reported. Of course.

  “And your daughter confirmed it. Do you know where she was that night?”

  “He’s a good father. Something came up—a premiere and—”

  “She was sitting in a movie theater, killing time, Ms. Bryant Bell. Not at a premiere or whatever excuse your ex-husband concocted. You know, Lillie says she actually wanted to attend the party, but your ex-husband wouldn’t let her. Why? I’m not sure. You tell me why he didn’t want her there. What did he want to hide from her? What might she have heard him saying to you, Ms. Bryant Bell?”

  “Lillie, the party—that was a misunderstanding.”

  “Didn’t sound like a misunderstanding to that waitress.”

  “Officer,” Scott said. “Half an hour—”

  “He’s a good father,” I repeated.

  “Oh, I’m not querying his fathering skills, Ms. Bryant Bell. I’m just trying to understand your relationship with him.”

  “Lillie will tell you, he…”

  The policewoman was not convinced.

  I raised my voice. “I told you the truth. I’m not going to go over this again. Richard was the best husband I could have asked for and a wonderful father to our daughter.”

  “Elspeth—”

  “No more questions.” Scott stood up, slammed his briefcase on the table. “My client will not answer any more questions on this matter.”

  * * *

  —

  I had always believed that the next person would be stronger.

  And, I reasoned, I left eventually, I escaped finally, despite my weakness. Surely this could not happen again—Richard had changed, Richard was different, Richard was clean—and if it did, nobody else would stay as long as I had. I had stayed for Lillie. I had stayed because I was weak.

  Really, it was easier to not think about it at all. I lived on the other side of the country, in comfortable denial. The settlement was swift and generous—with the release of One Hundred Years, Richard and his studio were desperate to quell the gossip. It was worth it, he and his lawyers decided, to ensure my mouth stayed shut. They never said that explicitly, but Scott pointed out the clause in the divorce papers. Something about discretion, about avoiding publicity that could negatively affect his takings.

  I would not have told, regardless. I could not imagine Lillie growing up knowing the things that had happened to me, the things that I had worked so hard to keep hidden from her, within the walls of her childhood home. My cowardice, my weakness. And it was still there—the fear. Richard could discredit me, I knew he would: rewrite my words, change their meaning, use them to take my daughter.

  I chose a new life, instead, for Lillie and me.

  I had enough from the sale of our family house to put down a deposit on a small Upper East Side apartment. With the leftovers and pay from my early films, I started my investments. Richard wanted to fund Lillie’s education, agreed to monthly child support. She made friends; we organized play dates. I went for coffee with the kids’ mothers; I joined committees and boards of trustees, organized charity galas and bake sales. With my therapist, I talked over the stresses of playground politics and my strained relationship with my parents, and that was enough. It felt healthy. Everything ran perfectly. Every moment burst with tasks and functions.

  When I awoke in the middle of the night—sweating, anxious, gasping for breath—I could tell myself it was a nightmare.

  When Lillie visited Richard, I could listen to her voice chirping down the phone line and believe that she was with a different man. Not my ex-husband but her father. And he did care about her, she was safe—in both of those facts I had full faith.

  And when Lillie told me about Honey, that he was Richard’s new boyfriend, that he seemed nice, she didn’t know him well, but yes, the relationship was getting serious and yes, it looked like it might last, I began to scour the internet for pictures of them together, and I found the gleeful, gossipy reports stretching back to their first public appearance—of course the bloggers and journalists had a field day with that one—and it was foolish, I know, I was a fool, but I could reassure myself: Honey looked too strong, they looked too happy, for any of that to happen again. Would I have reached out to Richard’s partner if he had been dating a woman? Or would I have made excuses, regardless? If there was another voice inside my head, telling me to say something before it was too late, guilting me toward action, that voice could be drowned out with schedules and appointments. Barre on Wednesdays, Pilates on Thursdays, followed by lunch with Gloria afterward. Hair with Eduardo on the first Tuesday of the month. Board meetings on the second Saturday.

  As Lillie grew older, I even began to enjoy her coast-to-coast trips as time to myself. I met Julian. We were spending long weeks in St. Barts, eating fresh fruit and grilled fish. He tucked my hair behind my ears every time he bent down for a kiss. He rested his head upon my shoulder. When I woke up in the night, our ankles were locked together and he pressed, warm, against me.

  And then Lillie left, and I was not sure that Julian could be enough.

  He was not enough when I saw the allegations. Then his warmth beside me, in the middle of the night, was a weight. His gentle concern was a needling dig. There were lies in our silences. So much I could never tell him.

  It was easier to face Lillie alone, when she was outraged and asking me:

  “Why would Honey say those things? Dad’s not like that, is he? Dad wouldn’t do those things, would he?”

  And I saw the blotchy pink skin and the tears i
n her eyes, which she had tried to hide from me, and the bravery in her chin betrayed by the fear in her voice, and the way she looked hopeful nonetheless, and what could I say but:

  “Of course not, sweetie.”

  And then it became:

  “Dad never did any of those things to you, did he? You would know if he was like that, wouldn’t you?”

  And how could I reply except with:

  “Of course he didn’t. Of course I would know.”

  And then the questions became requests and biting my tongue became lying.

  And silence was writing a statement.

  * * *

  —

  The female cop snapped her notebook shut, bringing me back to the room. I blinked several times, trying to recall the words that had just fallen from my mouth, but they had disappeared. The afternoon was already fading.

  “Okay, well,” she said, standing, “I guess that concludes our questioning.”

  Was her skin paler, eye bags deeper, than that first day we had met? She looked down at me, silent for a moment, then added, “And if there’s anything—if you change your mind or you remember something, you have our number.”

  “Thank you, Officer,” said Scott, back to his breezy charm, though she had been speaking to me. For the first time in the investigation, I felt like I was the one with the power. There was a helplessness in her forehead furrows, a desperation.

  The male detective sniffed loudly.

  She went on, back to business: “If you could, however, remain in the state while we continue our investigation, that would be very much appreciated. As your attorney will confirm, this is in your best interest.”

  After everyone had gathered their belongings, we all walked to the entrance of the station together, through the ringing phones and shamefaced pickpockets. Both officers shook hands with Scott and me, each in turn, so the four shakes were completed in an odd, seemingly choreographed fashion. I noticed, exiting, that there were stars embedded in the sidewalk. Each featured the name of a police officer, their date of birth and death. I wondered whether, walking into work each day, the female detective felt proud to see her fallen colleagues honored—or whether she loathed the reminder of her mortality, how close her occupation took her to it every single shift. I would have felt as though I were stepping on my own grave. I would have taken the back entrance.

  How odd that I had not noticed these stars before. Perhaps I had always been too focused on the impending interrogations, on settling the facts in my mind. Often—not just on my way to the sessions but while brushing my hair or washing my face—I had run over the sequence of events. I had repeated my chosen wording until it was firmly imprinted. And then I could find strength in those sentences, because I knew them. Recitation was easy enough.

  Nobody else came, only us.

  We hadn’t talked. I don’t know him.

  Then the others were waking up and I had to tell them what had happened—that Richard had overdosed in the night.

  He was the best husband I could have asked for.

  Unlocking my car door, running over those lines in my head, it occurred to me that I would never repeat them. I would not return. I sat in the driver’s seat for a few moments to enjoy this realization—but it didn’t come with elation or even unburdening. It was quite unreal.

  I started the engine.

  * * *

  —

  With a low fog drifting, the gargoyle resembled a frozen sailor hanging from the crow’s nest. Only a few seconds later did it make sense, as the plumes dispersed and we plunged to street level, the pigeons of Notre-Dame taking flight.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, because it was: the pinks and orange, an early-morning opal.

  “Thanks.” Kei smiled, the colors of the projection reflected in the corners of her teeth. “Although I always say establishing shots are the easiest. There’s something inherently beautiful about landscapes, cityscapes, empty rooms. But when you can make humans beautiful, compose the bodies and the busyness—that’s true genius. Space is cowardice.”

  “Is that what you think about when you work—beauty?”

  —and whether or not—

  “Depends,” Kei said through a mouthful of popcorn. “Mostly I like to tell stories.”

  —we knew it was over—

  The dialogue from Dominus rose and fell around us. I’d walked into the room late and only caught the end of the scene in which Lillie appeared. For those five minutes, that one line, I stood at the back of the room, transfixed. I’d seen her act in countless school productions, at drama camp, in the little shows she put on during her playdates, shunting aside my coffee table and rolling up the rug. But this was different: She wasn’t herself. She was a young woman, a college student, wearing glasses, a thick knitted pullover, and an expression—of concern? of curiosity?—that I’d never seen before.

  And then Lillie was gone, and I sat next to Kei, struck up conversation. I didn’t care about the rest of the movie. It would spoil my DVD watch.

  —there was nothing we could do.

  “How about you?” she said. “You seem to have abandoned the other side of the camera.”

  “It wasn’t for me,” I said.

  “Dude, are you fucking kidding? I used to love your work.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Seriously, you were phenomenal. You were fucking beautiful.”

  Someone handed me a smoldering spliff—I passed it on to Kei.

  “Thank you, that’s kind,” I said. “But is it the vodka talking? I was only ever in trash.”

  “Don’t talk yourself down. The Anatomy of Inquiry used to be my favorite film of all time. A masterpiece. I still remember that scene where—”

  “Okay, Anatomy won awards. The others were terrible, though.”

  Kei let the smoke escape slowly from her open mouth. Her jaw clicked as it shut.

  “I know how it is, though.” She inhaled again, keeping the smoke inside her as she spoke the next sentence in a strained, nose-blocked voice: “You’ve got to get your face out there, gotta get paid.”

  Will you be there tomorrow?

  “But you seemed like you were going somewhere, when you gave it up.”

  “Maybe.” I rested my head back on the couch, looked up at the vaulted ceiling.

  Kei giggled. “And I know that—I was, like, your biggest fan.”

  “Come on…”

  “No, I was.” Kei passed the joint to Jerry and then rested her head next to mine. “Cassandra DiSotta, what a fucking character. She was my awakening. She was fucking mesmerizing.”

  “Now you’re making me feel old.”

  “Did you always want it?”

  I said, don’t touch me.

  Don’t fucking touch—

  I had heard Kei’s voice but missed the question, distracted by the action unfolding onscreen. “Sorry?”

  “The acting, was it what you wanted? Was that your dream career?”

  I frowned. “I don’t know. Maybe at one point it might have been, but…” I began to say, before starting again. “It’s difficult to remember, because it all just happened. I mean, I was very fortunate, but it happened and then…then it became something I didn’t want anymore, so…”

  You can’t leave, not now.

  “And now?” she asked innocently. Jerry was snoring. His head was falling, falling slowly—he jerked it back up. It started to fall again.

  “I’m happy,” I said.

  “But what’s your dream? What do you picture when you’re lying in bed at night?” She caught my smirk. “No, not like that…Like, when I’m lying in bed at night—and this is stupid, I know—but when I’m lying in bed I envision all the recognition I might get. You know, I don’t think I crave the money, and when I say recognition, it’s not even t
hat I want awards. I just want people to recognize that I’m good at what I do and that I have something to say. I want people to value my point of view. And maybe then I’ll have space to work on things that are just for me.”

  We watched the screen.

  When Camille left, I was ready to kill myself. I locked my door and I just sat there with my pills, thinking about everything that had happened, everything that she had said. But when the glow of the streetlamp hit the curtains, I realized I had made it through the day—

  “You’re a storyteller,” I told her.

  Flake white: lead. Minium: red lead. Realgar: a ruby of arsenic sulfide. Cadmium red, orange, yellow, green…Paris green: copper acetate and arsenic trioxide. I had been reciting pigment names to myself all day. Every poison I could list more splendid, more beautiful, more glorious than the amber prescription bottle that I held in my fist.

  “Yes, I’m a storyteller.” The screen blacked out. We were in darkness for a moment. Then we cut to another scene. It reflected in Kei’s smile again, but this was a different palette—inky purples, deep blues, and pastel greens. Smears of paint on a canvas. “Seriously, though, tell me. I can’t figure you out.”

  I laid my head back again and closed my eyes.

  “Perhaps I don’t have dreams like that anymore. I get by each day and…I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I can’t think about myself like that.”

  “Something tells me that’s not true,” Kei said. “You don’t seem like someone without hope or passion.”

  I couldn’t think of a response. Thankfully we were interrupted by a shriek from the other couch.

  “It’s coming, it’s coming,” shouted Charlie, leaping up. “Where’s Sabine? Sabine!”

  Jerry woke up, rubbed his eyes.

  Kei murmured to me, “Now, there’s someone with hope. Weren’t you ever a Charlie? Weren’t you ever hungry like him?”

  I sat up to find his face on the screen. His top lip quivered; his expression was pained. It was a tight shot, so close the screen cut through his chin. We could see each individual hair in his stubble, a gray vein beneath his eye. Saliva coated his lips. Sweat trickled.