by Joy Fielding
“Yes, but that’s a lot of time to account for. Sean can account for his whereabouts for part of the day, but not all.”
“Then arrest him.”
“We need evidence to arrest him, Mrs. Carver.”
“That story he wrote.…”
“Not enough.”
“We’ve had someone watching him,” Detective Gill said.
“And?”
“So far, nothing.”
“Have you talked to Lindsey Krauss?”
Detective Bartolli checked his notes. “Yes. And to the other names on the list your husband gave us.”
“Ex-husband,” Cindy said.
“Ex-husband, yes. Sorry about that.” The detective smiled sheepishly, scratched at his ear. “The consensus among several of Julia’s friends is that she was involved with a married man.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Leigh said.
Cindy said nothing.
“Cindy?” her sister said.
“Have you talked to Ryan Sellick?” Cindy asked.
“He denies any romantic involvement with your daughter.”
“Do you believe him?”
“Is there some reason we shouldn’t?”
Cindy shrugged, filling the policemen in on everything that had taken place in the last week between herself and the Sellicks. She watched Detective Gill dutifully jot this information down, and wondered whether she really believed Ryan and Julia were having an affair, whether Faith had phoned her earlier, whether either one could have played a part in her daughter’s disappearance. “What about Michael Kinsolving?” she asked.
“We have no evidence to suggest he was in any way involved.”
“He left town right after he saw Julia,” Cindy reminded them.
“He claims he was in the country, scouting locations.”
“And? Was he?”
“We’re still checking into that.”
Cindy lowered her head. “So, basically what you’re telling me is that we’re no farther ahead than we were last week. Except now, another girl has disappeared.”
“Mrs. Carver …”
“I know. There’s no reason to assume the two cases are connected.”
An hour later, Cindy was lying on her bed, looking through her festival catalog. In the section marked Masters, she found a photograph of what appeared to be an ambulance or a police car racing along a dark, metropolitan street, the deliberately blurred image bathed in an eerie orange-red light, a woman’s darkened silhouette in the foreground. The notes underneath it read: Lost, Michael Kinsolving’s sensational new film deals with the underside of contemporary society, with disaffected youth and the appalling generation who created and raised them. We meet Catherine, age twenty-two and already a seasoned con artist, and her sister, Sarah, five years her junior, addicted to cocaine and men old enough to be her father.
Cindy closed the book, rifled through the envelope of movie coupons Meg had left for her, then scanned the Volkswagen Guide to the Festival Official Film Schedule booklet, locating the listing for Lost. Tonight at seven-fifteen at the Uptown 1, she read, reaching for the phone.
“Hello?” Meg answered, her voice a hoarse whisper. “Cindy?”
Cindy pictured Meg crouching down in her seat in the darkened theater, felt the angry glares of the people sitting around her.
“I’ll meet you inside the theater at seven,” Cindy said, then hung up before she had a chance to change her mind.
TWENTY-ONE
THE Uptown 1 was already filled to capacity by the time Cindy arrived at just after seven o’clock that evening. She searched through the dim light of the large, old-fashioned auditorium for her friends, praying she wouldn’t run into anyone else she knew. She could only imagine what they might say. Can you believe it? Her daughter’s been missing for over a week, God only knows what’s happened to her, and she’s out galavanting around. She’s going to the movies!
And they’d be right, Cindy thought, wondering what the hell she was doing here. Did she seriously think she’d glean anything of significance from Michael Kinsolving’s new film? That there’d be hidden clues pointing to her daughter’s whereabouts? That she’d gain insight into the director’s tortured psyche? Or had she merely been desperate to get out of the house? Away from her mother, her sister, the dog? What is my objective? she asked herself, twisting sharply around, fleeing the crowded auditorium for the equally crowded lobby, coming to an abrupt halt in front of a long table covered with sushi and exotic sandwiches.
“Can I help you?” A young woman stared at her expectantly from behind the food-laden table.
Cindy suddenly realized she was ravenously hungry, not having eaten anything since breakfast, despite Leigh’s constant efforts to stuff food down her throat. She’d pleaded exhaustion when Warren invited them all out for dinner, insisting her mother and sister go without her, then vaulted from the house the minute they were gone. She’d left them a note—Needed some air. Back by ten, she’d scribbled—so they wouldn’t worry. Although they’d worry anyway, she knew, guilt sitting heavy in her chest, like heartburn. She’d grab a sandwich and head straight for home, she decided now. Coming here had been a mistake. What had she been thinking? “What kind of sandwich is that?” she asked the pale-faced young woman whose name tag identified her as a festival volunteer.
“Tomato, Havarti cheese, and avocado on whole wheat.”
Cindy nodded her approval, her mouth watering as she reached inside her purse for some money.
“I’ll get that,” a man said from somewhere behind her, and Cindy turned to see Neil Macfarlane.
“Where did you come from?” Cindy said, startled by his unexpected presence. What was he doing here?
Neil motioned toward the inside auditorium. “We’re sitting near the back. Meg was just about to call you when you went running out.”
“I didn’t realize you’d be here.”
“Trish had an extra ticket.” Dimples creased the skin around Neil’s mouth as his lips flirted with a smile. “She called me, told me you were coming. I hope you don’t mind. If it makes you at all uncomfortable.…”
“It doesn’t.”
“Good.” He took her elbow, led her toward a relatively quiet corner of the old lobby, whose walls were the color of dark blood. “I’ve called a few times.…”
“Yes, I know. I’m really sorry I haven’t returned your messages.” I wanted to call you, she thought. So many times. “It’s been so crazy,” she said.
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Thank you.” Cindy smiled, fought the urge to caress his cheek. Had his eyes always been so blue? she wondered, before deliberately looking away.
“Are you ready to go back inside?”
Cindy straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath. “Ready or not.”
IT WAS COMPLETELY dark in the auditorium as Neil led Cindy up the steep rows of stairs to where Meg and Trish were sitting near the back of the theater. The two friends greeted her with prolonged hugs and kisses.
“You okay?” Meg grabbed Cindy’s hand and held it tightly in her lap. “I’m so glad you came.”
“We were afraid you’d bolted,” Trish said.
“I thought about it.”
“You don’t mind … about Neil?” she whispered.
“I don’t mind.”
“Ssh,” said several nearby voices as a large spotlight jumped across the stage, ultimately coming to rest on a solitary figure standing to the left of the giant screen.
“Hello, I’m Richard Pearlman, and I’m one of the organizers of this year’s festival,” the casually dressed young man announced to a smattering of light applause. “First, I want to thank our sponsors,” he said, gamely naming each one in turn. “Tonight, we are extremely privileged to be hosting the North American premiere of Michael Kinsolving’s amazing new movie, Lost, a film of astonishing power and resonance. We are also honored to have Michael Kinsolving here with us this evening.”
A ple
ased gasp trickled through the audience, like a breeze through a wheatfield.
“Ladies and gentlemen … Michael Kinsolving.”
The applause was heartfelt and enthusiastic as the famed Hollywood director in his trademark black T-shirt and tight jeans, hopped onto the stage and waved. Then he cupped his right hand over his eyes, and stared out at the audience.
Can he see me? Cindy wondered, torn between leaning forward and sinking low in her seat.
“I hope you still feel like clapping after you see the film,” Michael said to much laughter. “Anyway, what can I say? I love this festival. I love this city. As you may know, I’m planning to film my next movie here.” Another burst of applause. “We tried to do something a little different with Lost, so I hope you don’t mind. Anyway, I’ll be available for a Q&A after the film.” More applause. “Enjoy.”
He jumped from the stage and the spotlight promptly evaporated. Enjoy, Cindy repeated silently as a haunting musical refrain began swirling about her head, and the screen filled with a group of ghostly, seminude dancers, whose arms and legs were painted in the black-and-white stripes of a movie clapboard, an arresting series of images that were part of this year’s festival’s logo. After several more promos, the movie began.
Cindy sank back in her chair as Meg squeezed her hand. What am I doing here? she wondered again, as the credits rolled across a deserted inner-city street. What do I hope to achieve? What is my objective?
(Documentary Footage: Cindy, in the bedroom of the house on Balmoral Avenue, the month before Tom packs his bags and moves out. It’s a few minutes after 10 P.M. and he’s just come home. Cindy has been waiting for him all night, intent on putting their marriage back on track, ready to accept at least part of the blame for its derailment. It’s possible she’s been too demanding, too critical, too angry all the time, as Tom is always saying. They’ve been married for seventeen years, nearly half her life. They were children when they eloped. Her entire adult life has been interlocked with his. Could she survive without him? And what of their two beautiful daughters, daughters who would be devastated should she fail to make things right between them? While she finally recognizes that she can’t change her husband’s behavior, she can certainly change her own. She can show Tom the love and respect he needs, even if he is not always deserving of either. To that end, she is wearing a new, short, red satin nightgown and pointy-toed shoes with skinny stiletto heels, the kind he’s always admired on other women.
He pleads exhaustion as she burrows into his arms and tugs at his tie. She can smell another woman’s perfume on his skin. Stubbornly, even recklessly, Cindy closes her eyes, covers her husband’s lips with her own. She tastes another woman’s lipstick, and fights the urge to gag, determined to ignore the bile rising in her throat, as Tom’s body slowly, reluctantly, begins to respond to her ministrations. Soon, they are on the bed and he is unzipping his pants, lifting up her nightgown, although he doesn’t look at her, has barely looked at her since he walked into the room, as if she no longer exists for him, as if she no longer exists at all. Can you see me? Cindy wonders, feeling herself shrink beneath his weight, become less visible, less viable, with each mindless thrust of his hips. “Look at me,” she demands suddenly, grabbing his chin in her hands, forcing his eyes to hers, the fierceness in her voice catching them both by surprise. Immediately she feels him grow soft. He pulls away from her in disgust.
She tries to apologize, to explain, but apologies and explanations lead only to recriminations, recriminations to accusations, accusations to more accusations. They end up fighting, the same fight they’ve been having for weeks, months, years. “What do you hope to achieve when you say things like that?” he asks. “I mean, really, Cindy. What is your objective?”)
I don’t know, Cindy acknowledged now, watching as a young woman’s face overtook the screen, light bouncing off her long black hair, so that it sparkled like diamonds against the night sky. Her full lips were open and trembling. Huge, coffee-colored eyes scanned the desolate street.
I don’t know anything anymore, Cindy thought, following the young woman on the screen into a run-down diner, noticing the hungry looks from the men and boys already inside.
“Has anyone here seen Julia?” the girl asked the decidedly motley crew.
Cindy gasped, clutched her stomach, the sandwich in her lap dropping to the floor.
“What’s wrong?” Neil leaned forward as Meg’s hand tightened its grip on Cindy’s fingers.
“Jimmy doesn’t come around much these days,” someone answered.
Jimmy, Cindy realized, collapsing forward in her seat, the air rushing from her lungs as if she’d been sucker-punched. Jimmy. Not Julia.
“Are you okay?” Trish asked.
Cindy nodded, unable to find her voice.
“I’ll get you another sandwich,” Neil offered.
“No,” Cindy whispered hoarsely, her appetite gone. “It’s all right.”
“Ssh,” someone said from the row behind.
The rest of the movie passed in a merciful blur. Cindy saw a succession of faces, a panorama of flesh. Raised voices, loud sighs, long silences. Sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll. Love and pain, and the whole damn thing. When it was over, the entire audience jumped to its feet, hooting and hollering its prolonged approval. “I think he finally has another hit,” Meg exclaimed, sitting back down, clapping wildly.
Cindy realized that, although her eyes had never left the screen, she hadn’t absorbed a single frame. Although she’d heard each word, she couldn’t recall a single one. If there’d been anything of value to be gleaned by being here, she’d missed it. She’d missed everything. As usual.
The lights came up. Richard Pearlman vaulted back to the stage. “Ladies and gentlemen, once again I give you Michael Kinsolving.”
The director acknowledged the deafening ovation with a modest bow. “Does that mean you approve?”
The audience roared. Loud whistles pierced the air.
“Thank you,” Michael said, clearly reveling in the sound. “You’re very kind.”
The applause abated as Richard Pearlman leaned his lanky torso into the microphone. “Michael’s generously agreed to answer some questions.” He peered into the audience.
Can he see me? Cindy thought. Can anybody see me?
“Yes,” Richard Pearlman said. “You, there, in the middle.”
A heavyset woman in stretch leopard-print pants scrambled to her feet. “First, I want to congratulate you on a brilliant film. And I couldn’t help but be struck by the parallels to Dante …”
“Show-off,” Trish muttered.
“What parallels to Dante?” Meg asked.
“And I wondered whether you were consciously going after something more literary with this film?” the woman continued.
“More literary?” the director repeated, obviously tickled by the question. “First time I’ve ever been accused of that.”
The audience laughed.
Richard Pearlman pointed to a man in the second row. “Yes?”
“How long did it take you to shoot the film?”
“A little over three months.”
“Where did you find the lead actress?” a woman shouted, not bothering to wait her turn.
“Monica Mason, yes. She was great, wasn’t she?”
More applause.
“I wish I could say that I discovered her sitting at the soda fountain at Schwab’s, or tell you one of those apocryphal Hollywood stories you always hear about, but the truth is that she was just one of dozens of very talented young actresses who auditioned for the part. Her agent sent her over one afternoon, she read for us, and that was that. Nothing very dramatic, I’m afraid.”
Richard Pearlman pointed to a middle-aged woman in the upper right corner of the theater. “Yes?”
“Speaking of dramatic stories,” the woman began, “do you know anything about what’s happening with the police investigation into the two missing girls?”
“O
h, my God,” Cindy whispered. Was this what she’d been waiting for? Was this the reason she was here?
“No,” Michael answered curtly. “I don’t know any more than you do.”
“I understand one of the girls is an actress,” the woman continued.
“Yes, I believe that’s true.”
“Didn’t she audition for you the morning she disappeared?”
“I believe she did, yes.” Michael scratched uncomfortably at the tip of his nose, looked to Richard Pearlman for help.
“Could we confine your questions to the wonderful movie we’ve just seen?” Richard asked. “Thank you.” He pointed to another woman on his left.
“How does it feel to be the subject of a police investigation? Do you feel like you’re in the middle of one of your own movies?”
Michael laughed, but the laugh was strained. “A bit, yes. Any more questions about Lost?”
“If they find her, you should give her the part,” a man shouted out from the last row. “Then you’d have that apocryphal Hollywood story to tell us next time.”
“That’s true,” Michael conceded as the audience laughed.
An apocryphal Hollywood story, Cindy thought, feeling sick to her stomach. Her daughter’s disappearance reduced to an amusing anecdote for the film cognoscenti. “I have to get out of here,” she said, jumping to her feet, Neil right beside her.
“Are you all right?” Meg asked.
“I have to go.”
“We’ll come too,” Trish offered.
“No.”
“I’ll take her home,” Neil said.
“We’ll come with you,” Meg insisted, following after them down the stairs.
“No,” Cindy said forcefully, spinning around. “Please.”
Meg stopped, tears filling her eyes. “You’re sure?”
Cindy nodded. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“The gentleman in the third row,” Richard Pearlman was saying as Cindy and Neil clambered down the steps and into the lobby.
The man’s voice trailed after her. “Has being questioned by the police changed your opinion about Toronto?”
AN HOUR LATER, Cindy was quietly ushering Neil inside her front hall. “I think everyone’s asleep,” she whispered. “Can I get you anything? Something to drink?”
