His hand moved up her arm to her smooth, bronzed shoulder. “Lou’s going to call tomorrow. There’s a role he’s already cast me in. It’s incredible. I read three times and did great. I definitely made an impression. My big break is here. I got to make the best of it.” Ethan paused a moment, his hands rising to rub his eyes and stubbly cheeks. “It’s happening, Christa.”
Christa stared at him. Her soft brown eyes were wet with tears. “I’m so proud of you, Ethan,” she cried, sliding on top of him and kissing him hard on the lips. “I just knew it. You’re something special.”
Christa unbuttoned his shirt. The warmth of her skin and the softness of her breasts pressed flat against his bare chest distracted him from any rational thought. That afternoon would stay in his memory for a long time.
Chapter 44
Ethan’s Timeline
September 1991
With all the goings-on of the day, Ethan had delayed preparing for his evening performance. Then his cab got jammed in traffic, forcing him to run the remaining six blocks to the Limelight. He still was dressing as the music started out front. While waiting for his stage-left entrance, he could feel the rivulets of sweat trickling down his chest and back. His face was damp, even though Daphne, the butch, braless makeup artist, had toweled his forehead off while applying his makeup.
“Shit, this is crazy,” she lamented, wiping her own forehead and inadvertently distracting Ethan with the sight of her erect nipples tight against her white cotton T-shirt, inches from his face. “It’s like stickin’ in a tampon while I fuckin’ pee.”
“Daph!” Julia cried from somewhere behind Ethan. “That’s gross.”
“His face is like a fuckin’ runnin’ stream,” she retorted, snorting a guffaw. “It might as well be piss.”
“Oh, sick, Daph,” Julia cried in mock shock. “Who writes your material?”
Daphne proceeded to wipe his face again and finish with eye shadow. “There you go, babe,” she laughed as she pulled the plastic cover sheet off his shoulders. “You’re the star. Go knock their socks off.”
“Thanks,” he replied.
His performance that night was another he’d try to forget. From the second act on, things turned upside down. After walking on stage, he inadvertently stepped into some spilled water. The combination of his flat-soled shoes and the polished wood stage caused his feet to slip out from under him. He found himself on his back in the middle of the set. Landing hard, he could hear the hush sweep through the audience as he lay for an instant on the hard floor, shocked still by his unintentional fall. Without hesitation, his lines were out of his mouth at knee level and all but inaudible to even the closest person to him. His breath was gone and a bolt of pain shot up his back. Locked on the stage, he struggled to his feet, knowing he was hurt but refusing to stop. Everything around him fell into dreamlike slow motion. Even the words from his fellow cast member on stage sounded slow and foggy. His lower back screamed with pain that dulled everything else. The other actor delivered the next line, but Ethan never heard it; he only saw the motion of the other actor’s lips. His next line, thankfully, was on his tongue and louder, as he maneuvered into position. Sweat poured from his forehead and down his cheeks, dripping from the end of his nose to the front of his shirt. Every syllable he uttered reverberated down his back and burned, as if bone and flesh were exposed to an open flame. The next half of the scene went according to plan. The pain was tolerable, provided he moved with care. He turned and sat down on a wooden kitchen chair. As the back of his thigh touched the seat, he knew he was in trouble. He could do nothing as the full weight of his torso came down, and he felt as if he was sitting on a six-inch knife blade. His world went gray as he bordered on consciousness. His lines were gone. He could barely breathe.
The stage lights faded to black as the curtain fell to end the second act. Two of his fellow actors were instantly at his side, assisting him up and to the side of the stage, as everyone scrambled with what to do next. Ethan told them he was not about to quit; he walked around backstage under his own strength but was afraid to sit down. The third act was minor for his character. He could rest, walk around, shake it off, and stretch. The pain subsided after popping a couple of codeine tablets provided by one of the stagehands. In his next scene, he climbed the steps to the stage and walked into the spotlight, only to find his mind devoid of anything to say. He couldn’t have spoken his name.
Before the fourth act, he repeated his first line over and over, while imbibing two long espressos and a couple of wake-me-up pills. The pain subsided, but he struggled to keep his eyes open. All was going well until he mixed up his lines near the end. The entire cast became flustered. Julia lost her patience—and her lines—and walked off the stage. Ethan, still in pain, had to ad lib the end without all the cast members. The show was a nightmare, beyond anything he’d yet experienced. Everyone disbanded afterward, hoping Ethan would be okay. For the most part, it would remain a nightmare that everyone wanted to forget but couldn’t.
“Character building,” someone whispered to him in passing. “You know—what doesn’t kill you … but let’s not repeat it.”
Done already, Ethan thought, but thanks for the advice.
Just after midnight, he carefully sat down at Rosie’s. Christa agreed to meet him there after the show. Not seeing her, he’d walked to the pay phone to call Cushman about his news. He’d been unable to reach him earlier in the day. The show was over, and all he wanted to do was forget, which should have been easy, considering he’d forgotten most of his lines that night. The parts he’d missed now came back with ease on his internal teleprompter, adding further insult to his failed evening. Where the hell were you when I needed you?
Steve answered the phone on the first ring. “Ethan, my man,” he announced, his voice as crisp as if it were midday. Ethan often wondered when the man slept. “I tried to get you earlier, but that sweet woman of yours said you’d already left. I was hoping to catch the end of the show.”
“Just as well you didn’t,” Ethan replied.
“Somethin’ happen?”
“It’s what didn’t happen that was the problem.”
“What do you mean?” Steve asked, the tone of his voice turning serious.
“I’d rather not talk about it. I want to talk about Columbia.”
“Hey, you’re da boss.”
“Listen, you have to get in touch with Lou Royson,” Ethan said, excitement rapidly returning to his voice. “Lou’s already cast me in a part. He needs to talk to you. Contract stuff.”
“No way, buddy! You’re kiddin’!” Steve shouted over the line. “You went for a screen test, not an audition!”
Ethan thought Steve sounded shocked. Was Steve really with him or what? The nagging sense of whether Steve was his guy whispered around his head. “Steve, whose side are you on?” Ethan exclaimed, shaking his head.
“My fingers are already dialing.”
“All right.” Ethan paused, peering at his table and scanning the patio. Still no sign of Christa. “We’re just sitting down for a drink. Why don’t you join us?”
“I’ll see. Depends on how long I’m on the phone with Lou. That is, if I can even get him at this time of night.”
“I doubt that’ll be a problem.” Ethan hung up and walked back to his table. Christa was walking up the patio steps.
“How did it go?” she asked, her eyes wide with anticipation. His facial expression gave it away.
“I didn’t break a leg,” he replied, leaning forward to kiss her very red lips, “but nearly broke my back.” Evidence of his pain was quite visible as he lowered himself slowly onto the cushioned plastic chair. “I landed on my tailbone. It fucking hurts.” Over the next couple of minutes he gave Christa the highlights—or rather the low points—of the evening that already sounded comical. By the end, he was laughing hard enough to make his back hurt.
&nb
sp; Jen, their waitress, whom the cast in general had gotten to know, returned with their drinks and a plate of nachos. Steve didn’t show, which this night Ethan took as a sign he’d hooked up with Lou.
Christa suggested they go after finishing their drinks. Despite the excitement, she reminded him that she still had a day job, which meant getting up early.
“Not for long, though,” Ethan said.
“And what do you mean?” Christa asked, her eyes twinkling despite the late hour. “What are you suggesting?”
“Suggesting?” he returned.
“Yes, you have something in mind?”
“Maybe.” Excited love filled his heart. Tonight was not the night, but he felt it in the air. He wanted her to be with him for the rest of his life. He stared into her eyes. He could get lost forever in her brown eyes. God, she was beautiful. How had such an angel landed beside him? Without thinking more about it, he decided the time was right to move with his heart.
Pressing both hands on the table, he lifted himself to a standing position. Christa followed his move, but he raised his hand to keep her still. “I’ll be right back.”
Making his way gingerly across the patio, he motioned for Jen to come closer. His lower back was stiffening from sitting still. The worst, no doubt, was yet to come.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“I need a cigar.”
“A cigar?” Jen replied, a blank expression appearing on her face. “You don’t smoke.” Then a smile appeared on her face. “But she does. Are Colts okay?”
He thought for a second. “No, I need a real one.” He turned to see if Christa was watching. “I need the thicker band.”
He followed Jen back to the kitchen, where she was gone for an instant, only to reappear a moment later with a yellow-banded Cohiba.
“This’ll do the trick,” he said. Rolling the cigar around in his fingers, he carefully slipped off the band and handed the cigar back. He smiled and headed back to their table.
His back stopped bothering him as he thought about the next few moments and what he would say. Christa had a funny look on her face as he approached.
“What are you up to, Ethan Jones?” she asked, searching for something in his face that would give it away.
“Oh, nothin’,” he replied, sitting down slowly and paying little attention to his injured back. He looked straight into her wide eyes.
“Ethan?”
“Christa,” he said, bending to one knee and taking her hand in his. He was oblivious to anything going on around them. “Christa,” he repeated, pausing for only an instant more, “will you marry me? I want you to be my wife.”
For a moment, she didn’t say a word. She didn’t move; she was locked in his eyes. He watched as her expression softened and her eyes, unmoving, went glassy, turning to water. A teardrop rolled down her left cheek and onto her red lips. The tip of her tongue poked out as if to taste it.
Ethan took the yellow cigar band and inserted it over her ring finger. “I want you by my side, Christa—forever.”
She began to flutter her hands. Tears ran down both her cheeks. Her shoulders and head shook as she grabbed his hands, squeezing his fingers. “Ethan,” she cried, trying her best to compose herself, “I’m already yours.” Then, squeezing his fingers even tighter, she added, “Yes, yes, of course. Of course I will.”
An hour later, they were back at the apartment. Ethan couldn’t find comfort, no matter what position he got into, but it didn’t matter. Standing seemed to be the best and most tolerable position, until Christa pushed their double bed against the wall and propped him up on pillows. Lying on his side took the pressure off his tailbone and eased the pain to bearable.
“Should we set a date?” Christa asked, returning to the bedroom.
“Yes, or let’s just do it,” Ethan replied, wincing as he shifted the wrong way against the wall. Sleep was closer than he expected.
“You okay?” Concern showed on her face.
Ethan tried another position and became more comfortable. “You’re an angel,” he replied, paying no attention to her question with his eyes half closed. He’d taken some Tylenol on return to the apartment and promised to be checked out if it was worse in the morning. But now, sleep had the upper hand and was taking him down. “See you in the morning,” he mumbled, hardly cognizant.
“Forever, Ethan,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. “Forever.”
Those were the last words he would hear her say.
Act IV
Talent is cheaper than table salt.
What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.
—Stephen King
Chapter 45
Real Time
March 1984
His dream was odd but very real.
Ethan found himself inside their apartment. Someone was standing motionless behind the entrance door. He didn’t know how he’d come to be there, only that he was there with someone else. He heard a key inserted into the apartment door’s lock. He felt rather than saw the person’s lips form a broad smile, as a plan was coming into play. Clear plastic, like Saran Wrap, was wound around the fists of the person standing nearby, ready for the strike. It was then he became confused as to where he was; it wasn’t their apartment yet seemed like it. But he’d been here before. Maybe it was because his eyes hadn’t fully adjusted to the darkness. The door opened, just missing the person standing in the dark behind it. He watched as a woman let the heavy door close and reached for the light switch. Hearing the door latch click, he watched as the intruder brought the plastic up over the woman’s head and, in a split second, pulled the plastic over her face and back around her slender neck. Ethan was moving before the man completed his motion with the plastic but to no avail.
The attacker pulled back with such force that Mila lost her balance and fell back against him. At the same time, she kicked backward, slamming his head hard against the steel apartment door. Rage flashed through Ethan like a charge of electricity. The attacker’s arm went rigid, as did the plastic around her neck, cutting off not only the flow of air but blood. As the monster pulled harder, Ethan was certain he would see Mila’s head severed. His scream was nightmare silent as he imagined finding her severed head in their bed.
Her legs kicked wildly as her attacker held tight. Ethan recognized her attacker but refused the image. Her strength was remarkable but not overpowering. Though the attacker held her above the floor, he could do little to stop her flailing legs, instead holding tight to the plastic until her oxygen was depleted.
Ethan watched in agony as her legs began to slow. In her last futile effort, her hands grabbed at the plastic over her face. Instinctively, she searched for leverage over her attacker’s locked arms. With her legs continuing to strike her attacker’s, she madly grabbed for his head with her hands and tripped him up. As he fell, his arm clipped the light switch, instantly lighting the entranceway as the two fell to the floor together.
On landing, her head turned sideways and allowed her to see her attacker. Ethan saw the shock and horror of recognition in her eyes, giving her attacker an immediate advantage. A quick turn of the wrist further tightened the plastic. In the light, Ethan watched as the familiar figure forced the remaining life from Mila’s eyes. As blood flowed from her neck, the tension in her rigid body eased, and her lifeless form fell limp. He watched the toe her ring was on quiver and then become still.
Ethan shuddered, unable to put together all that he was witnessing.
He watched as the man moved like a panther—smooth, precise, and efficient—his movement without wasted energy. Sliding his legs out from under hers, the monster stared at the slender shape before him. Ethan wanted to turn away, but the horrific spectacle made it impossible; he needed to know the violence dealt to his love.
Mila was so beautiful. But the toe ring—the to
e ring was Christa’s.
He heard the madman say, “Oh, how beautiful you are. Such a shame you had to get in the way—such a shame. Wrong place, wrong time.”
The man carried her into their bedroom, laying her on her back, her pretty face tinged in the gray-blue of death. Blood fell everywhere. Ethan saw Mila’s dark, lifeless brown eyes stare blankly at the ceiling. The monster sat down beside her on the bed and as gently closed her dead eyes.
Ethan again heard the monster speak. “If I can’t have him, you can’t either,” he whispered.
It was then that Ethan realized what was about to happen.
He could see Christa in Mila now. Why had he never noticed before?
The monster sat beside her corpse, observing as an art lover might study an intriguing work of art. This was his art. Two buttons had popped open on her white cotton blouse—Christa’s blouse—revealing more of her breast than Mila would have been comfortable with. But that didn’t stop her attacker. He seemed captivated by the lifeless form in front of him and with the freedom to do as he pleased. He proceeded to undo two more buttons and spread her blouse open. Mila’s breasts were full but loose, nipples shrunk and withdrawn. Blood ran down her shoulder. Ethan watched as the monster removed the surgical glove on his right hand. Then gently, like a lover, he touched the end of her soft nipple with his bare index finger.
Ethan was frantic. His neck muscles strained as he tried to overcome his silenced screams, trying harder and harder to make himself heard.
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