I shrugged. “You were seen,” I said.
She looked to Mother and Father for support. They remained impassive. She had been seen. She knew the rules. She was lucky we had waited for her at all.
“It can’t see me anymore,” she said. “No need to worry.”
“You blinded it?” asked Father.
“Killed it,” she said. “Strangled it.” She looked at me again. “No thanks to you,” she whispered.
“Don’t be snippy,” Mother said to her. She belted her coat around her. “Come on,” she said, “let’s go.”
But we had barely thrown open the door when the specimen appeared. It looked exactly as it had before, same orange and black, same unfortunate hat, except for the black marks on its neck. And the fact that, in places, you could see right through it.
“Hello,” Mother said.
“Trick or treat,” it said.
“Can I help you?” Mother asked. “Are you lost?”
“I … don’t know,” it said.
“Yes,” Mother said. “I can help you.”
For a long time it was immobile, silent. “Who are you?” it finally offered.
“Me?” asked Mother, bringing her hand to her neck in a way that brought back memories for me. “Why, I’m your mother. Don’t you recognize me?”
And that was how our family grew from four to five, and I came to have a new sister. Millie did not seem excited, but I most certainly was. A new sister, I thought, imagining all I would be able to teach her, a new sister! And teach her I did, and loved her too, for the whole remainder of the evening. Up until the very moment when, as the clock struck midnight and the holiday came to an end, we ate her.
Room Tone
1.
At the last possible moment he found the perfect house. It was empty and spacious and hadn’t been updated since the seventies, which was exactly what Filip wanted. It was for sale, with the old couple who had lived there both in hospice now and their children living on the other side of the country and eager to sell. To lease a place like that for a few weeks would normally have cost well over what they had budgeted for locations. But Filip had a word with the Realtor and since they only needed to film at night, she struck a deal with him that involved a lump cash payment of three hundred dollars, a sum that Filip suspected would never make it further than the Realtor’s pocket.
“We have a deal,” she said. “Remember, at night only. In no earlier than six at night, out by seven in the morning. And for exactly two weeks, starting tomorrow.”
He agreed. Of course he did. He figured at the time that the time limit was there so the Realtor would feel like she could ask for more money if they needed a few extra days. Besides, Filip had things under control. He, Filip, was the heart of the project: he had written the thing, he was directing it, he was handling the sound, he was doing the editing in postproduction. He had grown up down the street from the cameraman: they had a rapport, so even though Filip wasn’t the cameraman he knew exactly what this particular cameraman would do. The actors, too, were all people he had gone to school with. Which meant that he could see in his head exactly how every piece of the project would go.
But then again, there was the lighting person, who he didn’t know, who the producer had brought aboard. He was union, which meant he saw this as a job, complete with overtime. And the producer himself, who he didn’t really know, who had come through the cameraman, was a friend of the latter’s father. And of course the woman doing wardrobe, the makeup artist, a best boy, a gaffer: they were unknowns too. But, yes, basically, he had his finger on the pulse of the project. He was sure that he could get it done.
On day eleven of the shoot, he went by the Realtor’s office. “Done already?” she asked. “No discounts for days not used.” But when she realized that Filip was there for precisely the opposite reason, she said, “Let’s not talk here.”
They walked to a coffee shop around the corner. Over a confused mélange of cider and chai that the coffee shop referred to as chaider, Filip explained that there had been unexpected difficulties, that they were running behind. Just a day or two, that was all they needed. He was happy to pay for it.
“No,” she said.
“No?”
“As in no,” she said. “It can’t be done.”
He only needed a few days, he told her. He could pay her double the rate he’d paid before. They needed it to finish the movie.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “No.”
He opened his mouth to speak again, but she had already leaned far back in her chair, her arms folded across her chest, her mouth a tight line.
“Why not?” he asked.
“The house is sold,” she said. “I’d sold it before you and I struck our deal. He moves in the day after you finish.”
“Isn’t there a way of pushing the closing back a day or two?”
She shook her head. “He wanted to move in earlier than that. I’ve been stalling the escrow just to give you the two weeks I promised. But I can’t give you a minute more.”
The next three days were difficult. He quickly went back over the script, trimmed any scenes he could justify trimming, regrouped everything to be as efficient as possible. He prayed for single takes. He gathered the actors in a park down the street a few hours before they were allowed to enter the house and rehearsed until they had it just right. It was a struggle, and effort, but in the end, they were almost back on schedule. They might just make it.
But they didn’t. The last day, Filip had everyone show up at three rather than six. They had a series of scenes to do in the living room of the house, where the murder took place. The murder scene would have to be shot last of all, because of the fake blood. They couldn’t circle back to shoot the earlier scenes once the blood was smeared about, and they’d probably be able to shoot the murder just the once.
But when they arrived at the house, the Realtor was there, showing around a gray-haired, distinguished man. He was, thought Filip, not unlike the man who would be murdered in the script. “—move all this shitty furniture out,” he was saying. “I didn’t buy this crap. I only bought the house.” Then he turned to Filip. “Who are you?” he asked. “What are you doing here?” Behind him, the Realtor was shaking her head no.
“I’m … here to make a record of the house,” he claimed.
“Record of the house,” the man said. “Why?” He turned to the Realtor. “I don’t know that I’m comfortable with that.”
“It’s something the children want,” Filip lied. “To be able to remember how the house was when their parents lived there.”
“You’ll have the house tomorrow,” soothed the Realtor. “After that, you can do whatever you want to with it.”
“And you’ll take the furniture out?” the new owner asked Filip.
“Yes,” said Filip. “Absolutely.”
The new owner sniffed and then turned away. He wandered with the Realtor to another part of the house. Quickly, they began to set up, though before they had finished the new owner had come back again.
“Are all these lights really necessary?” he asked. “You’re recording the contents of the house, not shooting a movie.”
“I’m just doing what I’ve been told to do,” said Filip.
“It’ll be your house tomorrow,” the Realtor said again.
The new owner shook his head and went out.
It was a long night, and even with the extra three hours they quickly fell behind. The Realtor was back an hour later to bawl him out about coming in early. Filip stood and took it. He agreed with her, profusely apologized, did anything he possibly could to satisfy her as quickly as possible so that he could go back to shooting. It was a weird day; everybody seemed a little off. He tried to tell himself that was O.K.—the scenes that were being shot were leading to a murder after all, all the characters were more than a little out of their minds in those scenes, and maybe it was good for the anxiety of the crew to rub off on them. He remembered a performanc
e of a Jean Genet play he’d once seen in Seattle in which the actors kept injuring themselves, tripping, running into things, falling. They did so more and more often as the play went on, so much so that he thought, If this play goes on for another hour, someone is going to wind up dead. Maybe it would be like that.
And maybe in the end it was like that, even though they had to close the curtains for the final scene because it was already growing light outside, had to quickly rework all the camera angles so the closed curtains wouldn’t be visible. It was like everything leading up to the murder was being shot with a view of the dark sheet of glass that was the front window, but now that the murder was actually going on the room could only be seen from the other side, looking in. That was good—maybe that was good. If it was, then in a way they had the new owner of the house to thank for it. They began filming and yes, the scene came off and the blood went places where they hadn’t expected the blood to go, which was, Filip guessed, good. Could be made to look good anyway.
They were almost finished, the scene essentially concluded, the body lying on the floor, throat slit, no longer moving, and the killer standing, straightening his now-bloody jacket and walking toward the front door, when someone turned a key in the lock. The actor playing the killer stopped walking, not knowing what to do. Filip urged him forward. The door opened and the chain caught it and he saw, through the opening, the enraged eye of the new owner.
“What the hell?” the man said.
And maybe that was good, Filip thought, maybe they could use that too—with the resemblance of the new owner to the victim it was almost like a man was walking in on his own murder. Filip’s mind was already twisting the details, trying to make it all fit his artistic vision.
“Cut,” he said.
“You’re still here?” the new owner said, moving his head back and forth across the crack in the door, as if unable to decide whether to look at Filip with his right or left eye. “And the furniture’s still here? What’s that all over the floor?”
“We’re almost done,” said Filip. “We just—”
“This is my house,” the man yelled, his face going a deep red. “Get out of my house!”
“We need five more minutes,” said Filip. “If you can give us that, it will be enough. You’ll never have to see us again.”
But the new owner already had his cell phone out. The new owner was already dialing.
The police were sympathetic, they really were. Filip explained as much as he could without getting the Realtor in trouble, and the police were inclined to believe him that it had all been a misunderstanding and to let it go. They made no gestures toward trying to take his footage. Would he be willing to pay the cost of cleaning and of moving the furniture out? Of course he would, Filip said. In fact, he would go in there and personally clean it himself—
But the officer was shaking his head. “No,” he said. “Mr. Mason doesn’t want you on the property. He’s asked for a restraining order.”
But if he were to personally supervise the job then it would be sure to—
The officer clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “He’ll send you the bill. You’ll pay it.” And, not knowing what else to do, Filip agreed.
2.
It might have ended there, with Filip’s producer in slightly over his head because of Mr. Mason employing not merely a cleaner to take care of the mess but a forensic cleaner at that, despite it having been a simulated rather than actual murder. Looking over the footage he became convinced that yes, they did have enough, they’d be O.K. Even at the end of the murder scene they’d gotten enough footage before the actor hesitated because of the noise at the door as Mr. Mason tried to come in. It was obvious he was walking toward the door; that should be enough, more than enough. They’d simply jump to him outside the house, slowly pushing his way deep into his hiding place in the hedge. Viewers would be able to follow it.
So, it was O.K. Or at least he thought it was, until he started editing the sound. It was mostly fine, but in all the chaos of that last day, in the jerky start and the awkward final moments, he hadn’t managed to do the very simple thing of recording the room tone.
That was O.K., he told himself. It didn’t matter. They could take a moment in one of the scenes, one of the dead, silent moments, and simply replicate it until they had a minute, say, of room tone. But he tried that and it sounded … wrong. Not to the producer—the man couldn’t tell the difference—but to Filip. He went back through the tape, but no, there was no good sustained silence. Or rather, there was sustained silence, but it was all from moments when the curtains were open and they didn’t mesh with that more muffled feeling of having the curtains closed while the murder was happening. That stifled feeling, felt in the audio of the rest of the scene, was something he was missing in the silence.
He told himself it was no big deal, that the movie would be fine without it. But the more time he spent editing, the more he realized this was wrong. He needed the room tone.
When the new owner opened the door, he tried to explain. Yes, he’d been in the house longer than he’d meant to and he wanted to apologize for that. Yes, they’d left a mess and yes, they hadn’t been completely honest with him. He was, he claimed, truly sorry for that. When the new owner started to close the door, he managed to wedge his foot into the crack. They always did that in the movies and it seemed to work just fine there, though in real life—maybe because he was wearing sneakers, maybe because the new owner closed the door very hard indeed—it hurt the hell out of his foot.
“I’d just like five minutes,” Filip said. “That’s all I need.” Filip brandished the boom mic. “After that, I’ll never bother you again.”
“No,” said the man.
“But you don’t understand, without it the movie—”
“I don’t care,” said the new owner.
“I’m willing to pay,” said Filip.
“I don’t want your money,” said the new owner. “I want you to get your foot out of my door and get the hell off my porch.” And when Filip still persisted: “I have a restraining order against you. If you’re not off the porch in twenty seconds, I’m calling the police.”
Why twenty seconds? Filip wondered, absurdly, as he left the porch. Why twenty? What was significant about that length of time to the man? If the man would let him in and simply stay quiet for twenty seconds, would that be enough? Well, maybe not. Still, it would be a lot better than what he currently had.
“Don’t worry,” his producer said. “It’s not noticeable.” Everybody on the crew said the same, no matter how many times he asked them. He suspected they said it because the producer had told them to. The producer was ready to be done with the project. The producer was ready to move on to his next project, his next tax break.
But Filip found himself unable to sleep at night, thinking about the room tone, thinking about the several moments in the movie where you heard the wrong silence. He had to figure something out. He had to do something.
Which is why, a few days later, he was in a car parked down the street, watching the house, waiting for the new owner to leave. The new owner lived alone, it seemed, and so as the afternoon wore on, Filip began to feel that all he had to do was wait until the man went out, and then break in, record for a few minutes, and then leave.
It was early evening before Mr. Mason left. He went out the front door and locked it behind him, then got in his car and drove away. Filip waited a few minutes, just to make sure he wouldn’t come back for something, and then he got out of the car and moved toward the door.
He had a rock. He had brought a rock with him. He was wearing gloves too, just in case. He went around back to one of the windows there and broke it with the rock.
Immediately an alarm went off, loud and blaring. Motherfucker, he thought. He was already halfway inside, envisioning where he’d stand to record the room tone, how he’d get away before the cops arrived, before realizing that with the alarm blaring there was no way he could record an
ything at all.
He’d have to go in while Mr. Mason was there. That was the only solution. Surely the man wouldn’t set the alarm when he was in the house, sleeping? He’d simply sneak in, late at night, surreptitiously record the room tone, then sneak out again. Mr. Mason would never know he’d been there.
He waited a week, then two. No point going in too soon after the break-in. No, let the man relax a little, let him let down his guard.
He parked down the street, cased the house through a pair of binoculars that he quickly lowered any time a car drove by. By eleven o’clock, Mr. Mason was upstairs in his bedroom, the lights off, the room lit only by the sickly glow of a television. He’d probably be able to sneak in while Mr. Mason had the television on, except the television sound would be picked up by the mic. No, better to wait until late, very late indeed.
At four in the morning, he left his car and ran nimbly to the house. The front door was locked, of course it was, but the window next to it was open just a crack, for the cool air. Which meant the alarm would have to be off, at least the one on that window. A wooden rod kept the window from opening too far, but he could wriggle his hand and most of his arm through. He tore a small branch off the tree near the front walk and then reached in with it and used that to push and prod the wooden rod out of its channel until it fell clattering to the floor.
He waited, listened. No noise, nothing. Mr. Mason hadn’t heard.
He slid the window all the way open, popped out the screen. Carefully, he lifted the recording equipment in, then shimmied in himself.
In the dark, he pulled the window shut and closed the drapes. By the glow of a penlight he moved a few of the pieces of furniture around, trying to position them as closely as possible to where the previous furniture had been. He placed the headphones on his head. He positioned the mic and began to record.
The lights flicked on. He spun and there was Mr. Mason, standing on the stairs in a pair of striped pajamas, his face clenched in anger. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.
Song for the Unraveling of the World Page 7
