Ethan had nodded, half listening to Steve’s counsel. He could handle it.
Now as he looked around the set, a number of people were looking at him. His discomfort grew by the second. His face was hot. For Christ sake, all I did was stand by a camera, he said to himself. But remembering Steve’s counsel, he didn’t say a word. His game face revealed nothing of his anger. He stood and waited, wondering what was next. This was his fourth movie, discounting his desperation porn flick. None but the first, however, had been particularly noteworthy. With each he’d gained experience; each was a stepping stone to the next. This was his first real role since Browning Station. He shared the trailer out back with two other actors. They would shoot at ten locations. Ethan would go to nine of them.
“Where’s Johnson?” cried Rubinstein. He was sitting in his green canvas chair, wearing two sets of headphones—one set partially on his head and the other wrapped around his neck.
Ethan looked up and moved quickly to the set. He wasn’t supposed to be in this scene.
“Ethan,” Rubinstein said, standing up. He grabbed Ethan by the arm and pushed him in front of the camera.
So he does know my name after all, Ethan thought. Rubinstein rarely called actors by their first names on the set. This surprised Ethan and made up for his earlier embarrassment.
“Stand here and pretend for a minute that Jessy is your sister,” Rubinstein directed.
Ethan didn’t say a word; he only did as he was instructed.
“Roll it!” Rubinstein shouted. Ethan watched as a man wearing a nylon mask ripped Jessy’s dress. “Cut!” screamed Rubinstein, hurrying to Ethan’s side. “How’d you feel?” Before Ethan could answer, Rubinstein added, “That’s how Johnson has to feel throughout this picture. Mad as hell and crazy nuts. Now get off the set.”
Chapter 55
Ethan’s Timeline
December 1992—Huntsville, Canada
Ethan woke slowly as the cobwebs of a hockey practice dissipated. His eyes opened to a dark room he didn’t remember. He could only discern different shades in the dark grayness. He couldn’t remember where he was, as skates and hockey sticks retreated from his conscious mind, like water dumped from a bucket. Soon he’d have no recollection of the dream and his time spent returning to the hockey arena where he’d spent many hours in his youth. His one-time dream of becoming a hockey star evaporated as he became fully awake.
His hand automatically reached for the light on the nightstand.
He was again on location but this time back in Canada, very near a locale where he’d vacationed as a kid. They’d been filming every day for two weeks and had planned a two-day break to enjoy some of the local geography. Ethan’s character had been fighting an FBI agent after being discovered watching his son play hockey. It was something of a different role from the crazy characters he’d been playing.
Their location was grand. Ethan had many fond memories of summers camping in the area. The hockey game took place in a natural outdoor rink between two glacial deposits that had formed a natural triangular amphitheater. Covered in snow, two vertical seventy-foot rock faces made up each side of the field and overlooked Rice Lake at one end. It was a spectacular setting.
Ethan was playing a villain wronged by society. In the end he would die, but not without first saving his son’s life.
As a kid, he’d usually visited in summertime. All likely would be fine if it had been summer now, but they were in the middle of December, with Christmas two weeks away. It was cold—colder than Ethan could ever remember it being when he was growing up. Many of the cast members had laughed, watching him shiver in the makeshift dinner tents between scenes. They knew he was from Canada. How could a Canadian boy be cold? He never heard the end of it—“He’s not a real Canadian.”
Ethan’s character initially watched the game from high up on the rock face, near the lake end of the field, to avoid being seen. The scene was set for him to climb down lower, risking being caught, to get a closer look at his son. They’d taken three shots of Ethan on the rocks, attached to a safety harness and choreographed exactly as to where he was to move. Each shot had his character moving closer to the game. On the third shot, Ethan twisted his ankle and required medical attention, causing a break in the schedule. He winced now as he moved his foot under the warm blankets. They’d continued filming, using his stunt double to move down the sheer face.
Steve, seeming to know Ethan’s spirits were down, made arrangements for him to stay at Bear Lodge, a resort his family had only dreamed of staying at when he was a kid. Its luxury was comforting, and he enjoyed lobster and cognac and many of the amenities he’d favored at the more luxurious hotels he’d stayed in.
Ethan raised his arm and looked at the time. His new watch—a silver Phillipe Patek—was a present from Cushman for Ethan’s work on Browning Station, which had received rave reviews since its release.
It was five o’clock in the morning. Ethan had slept for four hours. He wouldn’t get any more; his mind was too alive.
He rolled out of bed and flicked on the gas fireplace. The mini-bar beside his bed was fully stocked. He grabbed a Heineken and then thought better of it and took the bottle of Glenfiddich18 that he’d started the night before. Things had changed from the days of sleeping in a cramped tent, boiling drinking water, and cooking on a wood fire.
The phone rang, vaulting him from his memories of late-night campfires. He dropped the bottle of single malt on the floor but retrieved it before spilling its contents. He was pretty sure who was calling and wondered whether Steve had given up sleep altogether.
“Hello?” he answered, his voice cracking and rough.
“Ethan!” shouted Steve excitedly from California. “You better sit down.”
Ethan already had dropped to the bed but was on his feet again with Steve’s raised voice. “Fuck, what’s wrong?”
“Man, oh man,” Steve went on, his voice in something of a controlled excitement. Ethan knew the information was important when Steve made such an obvious attempt to slow down. “Tell me—if you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”
Ethan was dumbfounded. He could only think of one thing—Christa. “Well, I think you know—”
“Ah, don’t think so much. An Academy Award!” Steve screamed into the phone.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ethan shot back.
“Eth, the nominations are slipping out,” he said. “You’re on the list, buddy! You’re gonna be nominated for Best Actor, man! Can you believe it?”
“Steve, that’s not funny,” Ethan replied, “especially right now.”
Browning Station had been released in mid-November to critical acclaim and a lot of press, although not all good. But one thing had remained constant: Ethan Jones’s work was remarkable. Ethan had tried not to believe his own press, but he had become surrounded by it. The rumor mill around town, so said Steve, was that a newcomer would be given the nod for the nomination. Ethan had been constantly on the road since finishing Browning Station, so he had not been part of the gossip and hubbub. Cushman thought it best to let the momentum build and stay busy.
Steve had repeated over and over again: “Just watch—it’ll pay off like you won’t believe.” Both of them were careful with Ethan’s appearances. Cushman kept the interviews to a minimum—and refused press releases. He wanted Ethan to remain an enigma; “keep them wanting more,” he preached. He also knew that if Ethan kept busy, he wouldn’t have time to think about other personal things that could send him in a tailspin.
“I told you, buddy, you’re on a roll. The best thing you did was stay busy on location and outta town.” Steve was talking faster than ever. The words were flying out of his mouth. “Everybody’s asking questions. ‘Where is he? Who is he? Where did he come from? Ethan Jones—who’s that? Have you seen Browning Station?’ It’s incredible, Eth. You couldn’t be in a b
etter position or getting more publicity. The award is yours. It couldn’t be better timed either. You’re on your way, like a bullet. Just keep doing what you’re doing.” Steve paused to take a breath. Ethan pictured Steve with gills in his neck.
“You’re serious?” Ethan stated, looking back at his watch. “Steve, it’s five o’clock in the morning. Who’s picking nominations for any awards now?”
“Actually, Eth, it popped out late this evening at one of the socialite parties in somebody’s mansion on the beach. Several of the nominations slipped out. Your name was one of them. The nominations are actually not officially announced until later next month, but you’re on the list. Don’t doubt it for a second. How are things going in Canada?” Steve paused momentarily for his answer.
“Good,” Ethan replied, still struggling to believe what he’d heard. Steve didn’t leave much in the way of space to talk before he was back into it.
“Listen, Eth, let’s keep the ball rolling. You’re next shoot is in Chicago, three weeks from now. It’s a new director. I can’t remember her name—something like Dovenport or Portacall. She did Tensions. An up-and-comer.” Steve paused to take a breath and then went on. “Listen, it’s 2 a.m. here. I need to get a few hours of shut-eye before the day begins. I just wanted you to hear it from me first. Congrats. Keep well, Madman. We’ll talk soon.”
“Sleep fast, man,” Ethan advised and hung up the phone. He sat motionless on the edge of the king-size bed. Numerous thoughts ran through his head, returning him to his first evening in town. Nothing much was happening in the sleepy small village in December. Christmas decorations and colored lights were on display to celebrate the season but had done little to lift his melancholy mood. Christmas was a difficult time for him. Any reminder could send him spiraling downward into a pit of loneliness. He missed Christa something terrible during any celebration. He’d driven up from Pearson International in a rented Toyota 4-Runner to get him through the anticipated snowfall. Stopping to grab a coffee, he’d walked up Main Street to stretch his legs after the three-hour drive. A few people were out walking and shopping, but the place was pretty quiet. Walking past an outfitter’s store, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the front display window that was filled with stuffed animals and mannequins wearing red toques and fuzzy white beards. A pained frown was on his face. As if on cue, he smiled and straightened up, unaware of his depressed demeanor. At the same time, the reflection of a yellow sign caught his eye across the street. Turning, he stood stock-still and read, “Catch Canada’s own Ethan Jones in Browning Station” on the town cinema’s marquee.
Standing in front of his en suite’s bathroom mirror, staring into sleepy bloodshot eyes, his emotions overwhelmed him even more than when he’d looked at the sign above the cinema’s entrance. He’d stared at the black letters that spelled his name. Here he was in a town where he knew no one, yet they would recognize him. Many, after seeing the movie, would think they even knew him. They might even venture up to him in the street and say hello, as if they were longtime friends. It was disconcerting to think that people he didn’t know and would never meet would recognize him. He was approaching the point he’d dreamed of for as long as he could remember—fame was hovering—but it scared him. Tears trickled down his cheeks as he shuffled back to his empty bed.
The room still was dark. His head was full, trying to put everything together, and it wasn’t yet six o’clock in the morning.
Chapter 56
Ethan’s Timeline
January 1993
Katharine Davenport stepped forward and looked at Ethan. Her eyes were magnificent blue crystals that wouldn’t take long to get lost in. With the sense of recall that comes from hearing a song from the past, he knew he’d seen her before. But he couldn’t put his finger on where. Her face was expressionless as she extended her hand.
“Hello, Mr. Ethan Jones,” she said, a mysterious smile curving her bare lips. “Nice to see you again.”
Mr. Ethan Jones. He’d heard that voice before. It was said in the same way, the same inflection. Where did he know her from?
Cushman had called him late the previous evening with an invitation to dinner with, among others, director Katharine Davenport. As he’d mentioned while Ethan was on location in Canada, she was relatively unknown, but her recent film, Tensions, had received a lot of attention at last year’s US Film Festival. Ethan knew nothing about her, and hadn’t seen the picture. Steve wanted them to meet prior to any table meetings with the producers and other cast members. Ethan wasn’t excited about meeting for dinner; he’d have preferred an evening alone for once. But the producers forced Steve into action when he learned that final selection for the role was still undecided. Ethan needed to get in front of Davenport and convince her that he was her man. Like it or not, Ethan was going.
Sitting beside this mystery woman, he tried to figure out where he’d met her before. The alarms were sounding. Her greeting of “Hello, Mr. Ethan Jones” echoed a discomfiture that was driving him crazy. Still, nothing seemed to connect the dots. Confounded by his inability to remember their meeting, he prayed for it not to be one of his less savory party moments. Her presence beside him only increased his unease.
He managed a few quick glances sideways and hoped for something tangible to register in his brain.
She sat very still and erect beside him, seeming to study each person at the table. Her straight blonde hair was cropped just above the line of her shoulders and shimmered in the restaurant’s lights. The evening was warm; despite living in California for the past few years, Ethan still had difficulty adjusting to the warmth in January.
Ms. Davenport was not wearing a wedding band but had plain gold rings on each index finger. She wore a white cotton shirt under a loose tan silk blouse and Versace dyed-brown jeans with a white rope belt—comfortable clothes that were impeccably clean and crisp. Her nails were short and matched her jeans for color. A thin gold necklace looped in the front of her cotton shirt. Her skin was tanned and lit up her face. She wore little makeup. It was evident she could combine business and pleasure.
Cushman had the movie’s two producers deep in discussion when Ms. Davenport turned and remarked quietly, “So Mr. Jones, I don’t suppose you remember our last meeting.” She smiled as she spoke. “Maybe in an elevator before you were famous?”
Ethan’s face flushed slightly, wondering what had occurred on an elevator that he couldn’t remember. In the same instant, it came back to him. His head moved closer to hers. A whole kaleidoscope of emotions confronted him. His mouth opened to speak as the horror of what followed that first meeting resurrected itself before his eyes.
“Yes,” he said, slowly exhaling as the tidal wave of feelings drew nearer. “That was you!” His words could have been a question or a statement. His tone made it unclear. He spoke again before she could answer to evade what threatened to crush him. “You were the one in the elevator?”
“Yes,” she said with a tight smile on her thin lips. “That was me—a little younger, a little greener, and—”
“Just as attractive.” Ethan finished her sentence without hesitating. The words were out of his mouth before he could check them, as often was the case when he’d had a few drinks. It didn’t seem to bother her.
“Well, thank you, Mr. Jones,” she responded, her bare lips separating to reveal her whitened teeth. “And no less reserved, I see.”
It was Ethan’s turn to smile. Behind his smile, however, were the brooding memories of the tragedy that followed their meeting. His mind rapidly assembled his wall of defense against the memories of that fateful afternoon. The monsters clawed at the door, anxious to get out and take him down—down to the place one didn’t return from easily.
“After leaving the elevator,” he heard Katharine say as he struggled to fight off the anxious tentacles reaching out from the depths to reclaim him. They were close but short as he held the upper hand.
His smile was an effort, and he missed most of what she said while holding back his demons.
“Are you okay?” she asked. Her face expressed concern for her star actor. “You look pale.”
“Yes,” he said, doing his best to stay present. “Yes, Katharine, I’m fine. Just tired. I apologize.”
Before they could continue, Cushman noticed their discourse. “You two know one another?” he asked in surprise—and surprise was something Cushman rarely expressed. It was his business to be in the know, especially when it involved Ethan Jones.
“Yes, we’ve met before,” Katharine replied, smiling and looking at Ethan as if for permission to tell the story. Ethan nodded.
“Please tell,” Steve encouraged her, sitting forward with his elbows on the table.
“It’s kind of a funny story,” Katharine began and then explained how they’d met in an elevator after Ethan had received his first role in Browning Station. As Katharine recounted their experience in the elevator, Ethan continued to ward off his gnawing menace. A red handprint, like a child’s kindergarten finger-painting, flashed before his eyes, diverting his attention from Katharine’s storytelling.
“I remember this strange man being over the top with excitement. I’d just been fired. I remember him saying something to the effect of, ‘Just remember you met Ethan Jones before he was famous.’ It was like he knew exactly where he was headed. It inspired me. Two weeks later, I was working at Paramount, editing scripts. In a way, it changed where I was headed.”
By this time, Ethan had downed two double-ryes and was ready for a third. His flashbacks to the elevator and the hallway were enveloping him. He tried his best not to recall the room number or that the door to the apartment was open. He saw the small blood spot on the carpet in front of the apartment door. A drop of blood was on the door just above the doorknob.
The Actor Page 31
