Clyde pushes the album away and stares at it, swallowing hard, wrapping his arms around himself in a protective self-hug, his mind a jumble. He wonders whether Ralph remembers him and as quickly dismisses the thought. It’s been too many years. Both of them have changed so much, especially him. Then again, it seems too much of a coincidence that their paths would have crossed again now that he is back in treatment with Doctor Menner. Or maybe not. And what was Ralph doing at Doctor Menner’s anyway? Clyde pitches forward and passes his fingers over the album, tempted to open it again. Then he shakes his head and hefts it onto the nightstand. Feeling the need to reset the chaotic tangle of thoughts and emotions coursing through his mind, he snatches up the remote control and points it at the TV.
He flips through the channels and finds a colourised version of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane airing on Channel 5. Fluffing up the pillows, he makes himself comfortable and settles into watching a movie he’s seen countless times, so many times, in fact, he can recite all the lines from memory. Right at the part where Baby Jane serves her wheelchair-bound sister Blanche a dead rat for lunch, the bit where Blanche screeches in horror and Baby Jane giggles in her bedroom, Clyde gasps and clasps a hand over his mouth to suppress a scream. He crawls forward to the foot of the bed and studies Blanche as if for the first time, having always paid more attention to Baby Jane than to her boring sister. Caterpillar thick eyebrows, pinned up mousy hair, eternally tortured expression, and … wheelchair … wheelchair … wheelchair.
His head pivots from the TV to the photo album on the nightstand, which he blinks at for a beat before creeping toward it and flipping it open. Turning once again to the family portrait, he removes it from the protective plastic and examines it, paying close attention to the other people in the photo: a pretty young woman with a toothy smile standing next to Ralph that Clyde reckons is his sister, and a thin woman with her hair pinned up in a tight bun—sitting in a wheelchair. He peers at the woman and feels his heart racing. She is staring off to one side with half-closed eyes, her hands clasped tightly on her blanket-covered lap.
Clyde narrows his eyes at the photo and traces a line with his finger from the wheelchair-bound woman to Ralph and pauses for a moment. Then he leaps out of bed and races downstairs with the photo in his hand. He dashes up to the table shrine and compares the woman in the family portrait with the one on the wall above the shrine. It’s the same woman, only much younger, with a full face and intense dark eyes, and her hair pinned up the same way.
* * *
Ralph arrives home in the afternoon and finds Clyde sitting on the bed watching TV, dressed in a transparent, pink nightgown. Clyde smiles when he sees him.
“Am I glad you’re home!” Clyde scoots to one side and taps the bed.
Ralph sets his backpack on his writing desk, noting that the bottom drawer is slightly open. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be here,” he says.
Clyde slaps the bed. “Sit here and watch Sacred Places with me.”
Ralphs kicks off his shoes and sits next to Clyde, who nuzzles up to him and rests his head on his shoulders.
“It’s a show about people who get in touch with God by making pilgrimages to the holy places in their religions. You know, Muslims go to Mecca, Hindus bathe in the Ganges, Catholics go to Rome, Jews pray toward—”
“I don’t believe in God.”
“Don’t be silly, Jimmy. Don’t you see?” He shakes his finger at the TV. “It’s obvious those people tap into some kind of higher power at those places.”
“So what?”
“So, I was thinking, we should go to our sacred places. We should make pilgrimages to the places that were important to me in my past life and to the places that are important to you, whatever they are. Maybe that way we can get empowered.”
Ralph tries to read Clyde’s face but finds it difficult to see past the plastered-on smile and heavy makeup.
“That’s not a half-bad idea,” Ralph says. “I can incorporate it into the treatment I’m writing.”
“Not for your film, silly. I mean it’s something we should do anyway. To empower ourselves, to make ourselves better people, you know. To make us stronger to deal with the stuff we might need to take care of.”
“Like what kind of stuff exactly?”
Clyde shrugs. “Any stuff. Personal stuff.”
“Right,” Ralph says. “Well, I still think it would work nicely with my film idea. We’ll go to the Marilyn places and to the James Dean places and film our reactions, and anything else that happens while we’re there.”
“What’ll that do?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see. It might be a load of crap. Or it might be fantastic. At any rate, it can’t hurt. And it might even be fun, especially for you. You haven’t been in front of a camera for a while.”
Clyde stretches out on the bed and closes his eyes. “I’m not looking to be in front of a camera, Jimmy. I’m retired now.”
Ralph stretches out next to him. “Please, Marilyn, it’ll be perfect, you and I can experience our…‘sacred places’ together like you want. And I’ll record it all. I’ll even use a compact video camera to be as unobtrusive as possible. You’ll get what you want, and I’ll get what I want.”
Clyde turns on his side and notices that Ralph’s eyes are moist.
“What’s wrong?” Clyde asks.
“Nothing.” Ralph tugs at Clyde’s nightgown. “Where’d you get this?”
Clyde swats his hand away. “I bought it, silly. Now about our trip…”
“We can leave tomorrow morning,” Ralph says.
Clyde squeals and throws his arms around Ralph, giving him a peck on the cheek. Ralph kisses Clyde on the forehead.
* * *
Ralph and Clyde screech to a stop in Ralph’s 300ZX in front of a car dealership at Hollywood and Vine displaying a collection of exotic and vintage automobiles. They exit Ralph’s illegally parked car, and Ralph pulls Clyde along by the hand leading him straight to a silver Porsche Spyder 500 convertible with the words Little Bastard #130 stencilled on the hood. He pulls his video camera out of his pack and walks around the car taping it, then he points the camera at Clyde.
“What do you think?” Ralph asks.
Clyde shields his face with his hand and glances sidelong at Ralph.
“What do you think?” Ralph repeats.
Clyde lets out a loud breath and drops his hand. “This is the one?”
“Not the actual one. It’s a replica. But this is the place where he actually bought it.”
Clyde walks around the car and Ralph follows him with the camera. “Kinda small, isn’t it?” Clyde says.
“Size is important to you?”
Clyde curls his lip and runs a finger along the side of the Porsche. “It’s nice, for a sports car.” He opens the passenger door and slips inside. “What happened to the original?”
“Are you kidding me?” Ralph hands the camera to Clyde, who points it at Ralph the way he showed him earlier. Ralph hops into the driver’s seat. “It was smashed to bits.” He grins at the camera. “I think it’s beautiful. One day I’m going to own one of these.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t stolen it.”
The smile disappears from Ralph’s face. He takes the camera from Clyde and switches it off.
A middle-aged saleswoman with a blonde crew cut, man’s suit, and black leather orthopaedic shoes strolls up to them and clears her throat.
“Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind a few times,” Ralph whispers.
“Back again?” the saleswoman says, holding her clipboard over her chest. She scans across Ralph and arches her eyebrow at Clyde.
Ralph switches the camera back on and points it at her.
Clyde holds out the palm of his hand at the woman. “Do you mind leaving us alone, sir? We’re trying to get empowered.”
* * *
Ralph and Clyde drive into the entrance of the Pierce Brothers Memorial Park in Westwood and roar around the circula
r drive toward a complex of lonely buildings at the far end. A moment later they are standing in front of Marilyn Monroe’s burial crypt with their heads bowed. Ralph reaches for the video camera as Clyde digs a couple of candles out of his purse and glowers at him.
“Will you put that thing away already?”
He waits while Ralph sheepishly stores the camera, then shoves one of the candles at Ralph, who fires it up with his fancy lighter. Taking Ralph by the hand, Clyde pulls him to his knees, where they remain with their heads bowed. After several minutes, Ralph glances at Clyde and sees that his eyes are shut tight, and his lips are moving.
“How do you feel?” Ralph asks.
“Shhh, don’t speak.” Clyde holds up his hand. “This is hallowed ground.”
“Are you feeling empowered yet?” Ralph asks as they walk back to the car, his camera now out and trained on Clyde.
“Each time I come here it’s like a true religious experience.”
Clyde brushes the passenger door with his fingertips and looks back over his shoulder at the crypt, his face clouding over. Ralph moves in for a close-up and notices tears standing out in Clyde’s eyes.
“Did it feel like you were visiting your own grave?”
Clyde whirls on Ralph. “Of course it did. What the hell kind of question is that?” He gets into the car and slams the door shut and holds his purse tight against his chest.
Ralph climbs into the driver’s seat and touches Clyde’s shoulder. “Steady there, Marilyn. I’m interested in what’s going through your head, that’s all.”
“This is all a game to you, isn’t it, Mr Fake James Dean?” Clyde says. “Well, it’s not to me. This is my life.” Clyde reaches over and switches off the camera. “And don’t you have any respect for the dead?”
“Of course, I do,” Ralph snaps, setting aside the camera. “What kind of a question is that?”
Clyde jumps out of the car and pitches his purse at Ralph’s head full force. “I’ve never met anyone as selfish as you in my whole damned life,” he screams. “Stealing people’s shit wasn’t good enough for you, was it? Now you’re trying to steal someone’s soul.” Clyde runs down the drive toward the exit.
Ralph sprints past him and blocks his way, holding out his hands at Clyde.
“I’m sorry, OK?”
Clyde punches him in the chest and pushes past him.
“Will you calm down, please!” Ralph shouts. “I thought we were making a movie. Isn’t that what we agreed? Sacred places and all that? Or am I crazy?”
Clyde halts and stares at the passing traffic outside the gates of the cemetery, his eyes red and swollen, his mascara bleeding down his cheeks. Ralph approaches and hands him his purse.
“I don’t like it that way,” Clyde says after a moment.
“What way?”
“The way you pull out your camera like that anywhere, anytime, no warning, and asking whatever comes to your head. That’s pretty shitty if you ask me.”
“It’s a style of filming, that’s all. Like a documentary. I didn’t mean anything bad by it.”
“Well, I don’t like it. If you want to write a proper script and run it past me in advance so I agree with everything you’re going to do, that’s fine. The way the big boys do it. But I’m not going to agree to be your plaything.”
“OK, fine. I agree. I’ll write a proper script.”
“And you’ll put the camera away for now?”
“No more camera for now. I promise.”
Ralph holds out his hand, and Clyde stares at it, then looks back up at Ralph, who flashes a sad smile at him.
“Friends again?” Ralph says.
They walk back to the car holding hands and sit inside, neither of them saying a word. The air is heavy with humidity rising from the heavily irrigated lawn of the memorial park. The faraway sound of traffic mixes with the sound of summer crickets and the occasional chirping of a bird. Clyde pulls up his legs on the seat and rests his head on Ralph’s shoulder, who stares pensively at the headstones. They sit quietly that way for a while, then Ralph pitches forward and turns the key in the ignition. He circles out of the cemetery, makes a right onto Wilshire Boulevard, and drives for a couple of miles before turning left onto Santa Monica Boulevard and speeding toward Hollywood.
Clyde raises his head. “Where are we going, Jimmy?”
Ralph holds up his hand. “Give me a moment, please.”
Clyde sits up and frowns at Ralph.
A few minutes later, Ralph turns into the drive of Hollywood Cemetery and circles around the park to an inner gate. At a security kiosk, Ralph exchanges a few words with the guard, then drives forward, shepherding his car along the meandering drive among the graves and parks kerbside at the far end of the cemetery.
“What are we doing here?” Clyde asks.
Ralph hops out of the car and strolls across the damp grass, and Clyde follows close behind. Ralph stops in front of a grave and pulls a black velvet skullcap out of his back pocket. Placing it on his head, he closes his eyes for a few moments, then reaches into his pocket again and pulls out a small stone, which he places on the grave next to several other pebbles of various sizes. Clyde looks past Ralph, trying to make out the words on the headstone as Ralph traces them with his fingers. After a moment Ralph steps back and chants something in another language. When he finishes, Clyde moves forward and takes his hand.
“Who’s buried here, Jimmy?”
“My mother.”
“The lady in the wheelchair?”
Ralph lets go of Clyde’s hand and stares at him.
“I peeked at your photo album, sorry.”
Ralph looks back at the headstone. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t touch my stuff without my permission.”
“OK.” Clyde brushes Ralph’s hand with his fingers. “I’m sorry, Jimmy.”
Ralph nods and walks back to the car, stuffing the skullcap into his back pocket and lighting a cigarette. Clyde catches up to him, and they walk the rest of the way holding hands.
“What happened to her, Jimmy?” Clyde asks once they’re back inside.
“I was a bad son. I made her sick, and she died.” Ralph turns the key in the ignition and the 300ZX roars to life. “I have that effect on people. So be careful with me.”
Clyde’s heart races at the wild look in Ralph’s eye as he guns the engine, making the tyres squeal on the tarmac.
“Where to next, Marilyn?” Ralph shouts.
Clyde shrugs. “It’s your turn now.” He fastens his seat belt and grabs hold of the safety strap.
Ralph peels out of the cemetery and drives north on the Hollywood Freeway. He opens it up when they reach the Grapevine, climbing the hills at high speed, then screams over the Tejon Pass and assaults the perilous grade in the direction of the valley below, eyes wide, nostrils flaring, his knuckles white on the steering wheel and stick shift.
“Now I’m feeling empowered!” he shouts.
“Slow down, will you? I’m fucking shitting my panties here.”
“No way, baby. We’re travelling James Dean’s Via Dolorosa now, just the way he did.”
The wail of a siren breaks through the roar of the engine. Clyde spins around and sees a chippie speeding toward them with red lights flashing.
“Great.” Clyde punches Ralph in the arm. “Now you’re going to get a ticket.”
Ralph pulls onto the shoulder, and the chippie swoops in behind.
“It’s perfect,” Ralph says. “Exactly as it happened forty years ago.” He slips on a pair of Wayfarers and stares straight ahead.
The fresh-faced, ginger chippie steps to the driver’s side, his hand dancing on his holster.
“What’s your hurry?”
“He’s travelling James Dean’s Via Dolorosa, officer.” Clyde pulls a compact out of his purse and freshens up his lipstick.
The chippie scratches his head.
“Please remove the sunglasses, sir. I’ll need your driver’s licence.”
Ral
ph claws the Wayfarers off his face and tosses them aside, then hands his driver’s licence to the chippie.
“I clocked you at ninety miles an hour, sir. You planning on getting yourself killed like him too?” The chippie writes a ticket.
Ralph laughs. “I want to go out with a bang, officer.”
“Yeah?” He points his pen at Clyde. “How about her? Or him? Are you planning on going out with a bang too, sir?”
Clyde snaps shut the compact. “Lay off, will you? Just give him the damned ticket.”
After the chippie speeds away, Ralph shepherds the car back onto the highway and drives the rest of the way down the Grapevine taking care to keep within the speed limit.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.” He tunes the stereo to a classical music station. “He wasn’t supposed to actually give me a ticket.”
“Get over it already, Jimmy.” Clyde closes his eyes. “I’m tired.”
Ralph turns off the main highway and drives a few miles, bringing the car to a stop at a bend in the road. Clyde sits up and sees an open field where several vintage automobiles from the 1950s are parked. A group of around a dozen people hover over a plaque under a tree. Ralph and Clyde get out of the car and join them. As the group thins out, Clyde steps up to the plaque and sees that it identifies the spot where James Dean was killed.
Clyde takes Ralph’s hand. “How did it happen?” he whispers.
“They’re not exactly sure.” Ralph leads him away from the crowd. “Some say he took that bend there at around ninety miles per hour, spun out of control, and hit that tree. But I think he came around the bend at more like forty miles an hour. When he reached this spot here, there was a tractor in the road. He swerved to avoid hitting it. That’s how he lost control. The car flipped over into this field. He was killed instantly. The impact practically decapitated him.”
Clyde’s head snaps around. “How do you know all that?”
“I can feel it.” Ralph looks back at the tree. “Just now. It’s as if I was there, watching it as it happened. From inside his car.” He lets go of Clyde’s hand and dries it on his jeans. “That’s evidence, isn’t it?”
The Death of Baseball Page 32
