Still Holding

by Bruce Wagner

  At first, she didn’t include anything about the new man in her life either. She did mention that Sadge was on the other side of the world editing a reality show and how that was probably not such a bad thing, “because between you, me, and the bedpost” they hadn’t been getting along all that well. But then she couldn’t help herself and, after inquiring as to the general health of her dad and brother, hinted that she was “kind of interested in someone” who also happened to be under simultaneous consideration for a role in the upcoming “Spike Jonze Untitled.” She added that “this person” was incredibly handsome and people thought he looked like Russell Crowe, whom she knew to be one of her mom’s faves.

  She wrote these things down instead of saying them on the phone because it was easier that way to sort her thoughts. Whenever Becca called home, she thought she sounded like a flake. Dixie always wound up asking when was she coming back to Waynesboro—like her stint as a Hollywood failure was, in her mom’s use of the phrase, a “fate accomp.” Anyway, Becca was superstitious that the more contact she had with family, the less chance she would have at success, by her own lights. It was better, she surmised, to keep a healthy distance between oneself and one’s roots (not just geographical)—that, in order to grow, a person needed to allow a great big space for the mystery which was their birthright to shine through. Besides, by writing everything down she got a kind of overview of her life; it untangled her mind and gave her ballast. (She’d kept a journal as a girl, so it was second nature.) Putting pen to paper, she even got a funny sense of entitlement as an actress, though there was nothing really yet to show for her little boasts and efforts. At the end of the letter, she thought of mentioning the Dunsmores, because after all they were potential Hollywood players with whom she might find herself in production, but decided not to, feeling still somewhat tainted from the drug-fueled encounter at the Four Seasons. It mortified her to imagine her mother ever knowing such a thing had happened.

  There would be plenty of time to call Dixie, down the line—and who knew? Maybe by then she’d have married a big wig or won a Golden Globe newcomer’s award or won a million dollars on a reality show (that, preferably, Sadge had nothing to do with). Maybe, God forbid, she’d get a weird settlement like the Dunsmores. Stranger things had happened . . . Maybe she and Rusty were on their way to being famous and she could go on the Leno show the way Brittany Murphy did, talking all sweet and humble, if that were possible, but Brittany pulled it off, about how before they broke up she and Ashton rented their first private jet so they could go back to Cedar Rapids, where Ashton is from, for Christmas, and then on to New Jersey to spend the rest of the holidays with Brittany’s family. (She wasn’t sure if the thing with Demi was trading up or trading down. But she knew it wouldn’t last.) Still, Becca made sure to say to herself that if she never did the Spike film, if it wasn’t in the cards, that would be OK too. She could always go back to Sharon. After the debacle, she sent the casting agent flowers and everything had been patched up (with promises of a “shiatsu date”). Sharon would get her auditions and meetings whether she scored the Spike gig or not. And if she didn’t, Becca theorized that, at the very worst, which really wasn’t that bad, it would be OK to be known as “the Drew girl” who almost worked with Spike Jonze. Sometimes that kind of reverse buzz was just what it took to launch a star heavenward. Elaine Jordache told her that for a long time Kevin Costner was known around town as the guy who got cut from a movie called The Big Chill. For a few years, the more he was edited out of projects, the more his stock kept rising. Those kinds of stories were legion.

  Morning Tide

  KIT WAS PROPPED in bed while Alf, who had already swallowed a Klonopin and a few extrastrength vikes, ate cold pasta and watched a Jackass DVD on the plasma. He kept an eye on his friend and gently shook him whenever he nodded off.

  “They said you shouldn’t sleep.”

  “That’s only for the first few hours.”

  “How’s your head?”

  “It’s better. Much better. So chill.”

  • • •

  8:00 A.M. AND ALF awakens to a Vicodin hangover.

  He lays on the living room couch. Outside, preanarchy of bird chirps. For a half second, looks around in where-am-I? mode.

  Hungry. Stink breath. Bladder three-quarters full.

  Should have closed curtains—intolerably bright.

  Mr. Raffles is on the patio, splayed indifferently upon flagstone, wide, soft belly slowly rising, falling under cold spotlight of sun.

  Hears a frightful noise: garbled, prolonged scream. What what what—is it even a scream? Leaps to feet. Enters bath, shocked at what he sees:

  Kit vomiting—a broken, blasted hydrant—onto walls and mirrors. Both eyes monster swollen. Stops. Retches. Convulses while still standing. Hunches. Straightens. Vomits again as if overtaken by spirits. Alf tackles him—what else to do?—slaughterhouse wrestling ring, infernal tag team. Tries holding him down—holds him—what else to do?—meaninglessly, irrelevantly, crazily—to stop time in throes of gale-force throw up while Mr. Raffles canters in, slip-sliding, paws in muck, yelp-yawn groaning. Kit bellows to sky, inciting Alf to yell himself—pure Dumb & Dumber shtick—cradles him, helplessly, hopeless, Kit blind, desperately clutching hem of Alf’s wifebeater in grand mal pietà, the Great Dane twitchy, and basso barking. Now Kit impossibly manages to look—really look—straight into Alf’s eyes, in the panic room: locked gazes, primordial silence, close fetid stink, drowned shouts in flooded engine rooms, paws and kneecaps slipping, ducking, and feinting, dog near to retching itself, forgotten grotto’s dank, drippy bacterial stench, Kit gone finally limp, Alf’s continuous scream solo now while he lurches with brotherly burden, crablike to phone, any phone, deadweight of fallen People’s Choice tucked hard to rib cage bosom as would sibling sailor’s washed-up warrior body be, figures in a majestic tempera, ruined ship loitering offshore, charred and luminous—sudden skeletal descent, descant, plainsong to ocean floor, grateful aquamarine entombment silent everlasting.

  The Three Poisons

  The Morning After

  “I CANNOT BELIEVE they discharged him,” said the lawyer.

  Counsel, agent, managers, and publicist converged on Cedars (Alf too—he hadn’t left since the early A.M. return) while friend and client underwent emergency surgery to relieve pressure in his skull.

  The surrealistic events had left the whole team powerless, breathless, and aghast.

  Marooned.

  “He signed a release?” asked the agent.

  “Yeah,” said Alf, boyishly vacant. The handsome, uncombed head hung low. Semidirty fingernails scratched reflexively at grizzled jaw. “He was pretty adamant about it. There was no way he was going to check himself in. He seemed OK—while they had him here. And he was OK at home. I mean, last night.”

  “He was not OK!” shouted the lawyer.

  “Whatever,” said Alf, shocky and depressed. Not up for chastisement. The agent shot the lawyer dead eyes, on the kid’s behalf. “All I’m saying is, he was totally lucid. He was worried about Viv finding out before he got a chance to call.” He huffed and snorted, congested by mucus and inchoate tears. “I tried to tell him that going home was a shitty idea—that he should just stay overnight and be observed.” He cleared his throat. “He said that his mom died here—”

  “That’s true,” said the agent, grateful to be able to glom on to some other tragic factoid, one at least that had resolution. “That’s absolutely right.” She began a series of short, nervously rhythmical nods, telegraphing historical longevity and the pedigree of her special relationship with the concussed superstar, a tenured, privileged intimacy with his life that naturally included an acquaintance with R.J., and charnel knowledge of that awful, protracted womb cancer. “That is completely correct. It was horrible for him. Horrible for him. Horrible.”

  “—that’s why he wanted to go home. Hey,” said Alf, resigned. “I can’t go up against Kit. Never could. He’s like a big brother.
”

  “I don’t give a shit what he signed,” said the attorney, mostly to himself. Alf should have called someone right when it happened, but he was a dumbo—an actor. Not the target. Counsel’s wrath became focused: rustle of lawsuits, hubbub of press conferences, briefs to be filed. “It is completely negligent, completely irresponsible. This is a major fucking personage here! Would they have let Spielberg discharge himself against medical judgment? Just stroll on out with a buddy? What on God’s earth were they thinking?”

  “It’s just so insane,” said one of the traumatized managers, staring into space. “It’s just . . . so wrong. Everything is wrong.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” said the lawyer, in high dudgeon. “When I am through, Kit Lightfoot is going to own this fucking hospital and the ground it sits on.”

  “Did someone finally call Viv?” asked the other manager.

  Alf nodded, snapping gum long bled of flavor. “A few hours ago, after we got here. She’s on her way back.”

  “That couldn’t have been an easy call to make,” said the agent. She touched Alf’s arm as a mother would.

  “I hope you didn’t tell her right before she went on Letterman,” said the publicist.

  “He said a few hours ago,” said a manager, testily. “Jesus!”

  “After,” said Alf, by rote.

  “My poor attempt at black humor,” said the publicist, contritely.

  “She’s flying back with Sherry on the Paramount jet,” said Alf.

  “What are we doing about crowd control?” said the lawyer to the publicist. “It’s Day of the Locust out there.”

  Just then, Darren Aronofsky was led in by a hospital guard.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  “He’s still in surgery,” said the agent.

  “Jesus.” He turned to Alf. “Was it a fight?”

  “No. This guy just . . . blindsided him. He was hassling us before at the bar. He was pissed because Kit wouldn’t sign his girlfriend’s left tit or whatever.”

  “Jesus. Jesus.” Darren shook his head, sucking in air. “Are you OK?”

  “Under the circumstances,” nodded Alf. “Yeah. I’m cool.”

  “Where’s Viv?” said Darren, turning to the others.

  “On her way back from New York,” said the publicist.

  “Have they said anything?” asked Darren. “I mean, the doctors?”

  The agent began to cry. A manager put his arm around her.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “What if he’s really, really hurt and can’t get better? This is so horrible! The world is such a horrible place!”

  “There’s a lot of people who love him, Kiki,” said the other manager, forlornly. “A lot of people who care.”

  The comanager said hollowly, “We’ll see him through.”

  “He’s a stubborn motherfucker,” said Alf, cocking his head—smiling, as they say, through the tears.

  “That’s for damn sure,” said Darren. “He’s a survivor.”

  “Plus it’d kill him not to do your movie,” said Alf, wryly.

  “Oh, he’ll do the movie,” said Darren, with that unsinkable old-fashioned brio only a film director can muster. The agent found his remarks vastly comforting.

  “I have never seen him more passionate about a project,” she said. “I mean, it’s amazing.”

  “And he’ll be amazing in it,” said Darren. “We’ll push the start date, that’s all.”

  “It’s a wonderful thing,” said a manager, “for him to know—even if he doesn’t know today—that the project’s waiting for him.”

  An uncomfortable pause in the wake of those absurd, well-meaning sentiments; the agent began to cry again.

  “It’s just so . . . weird. Darren!—your film—I mean, that’s what it’s about—in a sense. No? Special Needs? I mean, has anyone even thought about how weird that is? That the story line mirrors—”

  “That’s where the press is going to go,” said the publicist. “Just a heads-up: that’s straight where they’re going to go. You know, ‘Life imitates art.’”

  “All we can focus on now,” said Darren, keeping it real, “is Kit getting on his feet, ASAP.”

  “I know. I know. I know,” said the agent, centering up. Regrouping. Steeling herself. Blotting her eyes.

  “He’ll kick ass,” said Alf, rallying the troops.

  “Oh, absolutely,” said a manager.

  “It’s going to be a battle,” said the attorney re the epic, looming litigations. “But let me tell you something. There will be serious casualties on the other side.”

  “Jesus,” said a manager, with sudden emotion. “Has anything like this even ever happened before? Has a major film star ever been attacked?”

  “Sharon Tate,” said the publicist.

  “I’m sorry, but Sharon Tate was not a major star!”

  Vigil

  LISANNE WAS AT the Coffee Bean when she heard. The washroom was occupied, so she dashed to the parking lot and threw up. She got in her car and went to the hospital.

  Barricades held a crowd of fans and bystanders at bay. Media vans sprouted tall white antennae. Nasty policemen banished drive-through traffic. She valet-parked at Jerry’s Deli and crossed the street.

  She scanned the upper floors of the building, wondering if he was out of surgery. Her eyes wandered back to Beverly Boulevard, in vague lookout for Tiff Loewenstein’s Bentley. Too soon, she thought. A visit from Tiff would come later in the week, if at all.

  She felt like she might faint. She called the office to say she had the flu. She was talking to one of the girls when Reggie jumped on. He asked if she’d heard what happened, and Lisanne pretended that she was too sick to talk.

  On impulse, she drove to the Loewensteins’.

  • • •

  WITH GREAT KINDNESS, the housekeeper led the ravaged woman in. She knew why Lisanne was crying.

  Tiff was talking loudly on the phone, in a faraway room. Roslynn appeared on the stairs in her robe, looking so frail and everyday that suddenly Lisanne thought she’d made a grievous error by coming and burst into tears.

  “Roslynn, I’m so sorry!” she said, face distorted. “I went to the hospital—I thought you might be there . . .”

  They embraced and Roslynn asked the housekeeper to please bring them some tea. She led Lisanne to the living room and sat her on the divan.

  “Darling, you look awful!”

  “It’s just so terrible—”

  “I know.” She put her arms around her, gently rocking as Lisanne wept. “We’ve been watching CNN all morning. We know a muck-a-muck at Cedars, Mo Biring. Mo says Kit’s still being operated on—could be hours. Our spies are working on it. We know lots of people at Cedars.”

  Tea was served. Tiff came in, completely dressed, and regarded Lisanne oddly—again, she felt a trespasser’s twinge. When he tenderly touched her head, Lisanne sobbed anew, throwing herself on the mercy of the cruel cosmos.

  “He’s out,” said Tiff. Lisanne didn’t know what he meant. “Of surgery.”

  “Is that what Mo said?” asked Roslynn.

  “I just talked to him.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “They don’t know— won’t know—not for a while. They think there may be some damage.” He hesitated to say it but thought he’d better. “Brain damage.”

  Lisanne seized up and stopped her crying as if doused with cold water.

  “My God!” said Roslynn, hand rushing to mouth. “My God.”

  “They still can’t find the sonofabitch who clobbered him,” said Tiff. This time, it was his wife’s head he caressed. He nodded at Lisanne and said, “Got the fantods, huh.” He said to Roslynn of their guest, “This one’s got the fantods.”

  “He was just so wonderful when I brought him your gift,” said Lisanne, from the heart. “So smart and so sweet.”

  “I had her bring him the Sotheby’s Buddha,” Tiff explained. “To the set.”

  “He’s so y
oung and so talented and it’s—just—so—unfair and so terrible!” The Loewensteins drooped their heads in sorrowful affirmation. “So kind, so unaffected.” She fought for breath. Roslynn touched her arm. “I just had the feeling—I mean it was so obvious—that he was such a warm and generous person.”

  “That he was,” said Tiff absentmindedly, as if in eulogy.

  “For someone to just do that to him—”

  Annoyed with himself, Tiff quickly amended: “That he is.” Thinking aloud, the executive said, “We’ve already wrapped, but that’s a ninety-million-dollar summer movie. We’ll need someone to loop his voice—that’s done a helluva lot more often than people imagine.” He scratched his ear and stared through the Cézanne, cogitating arcane postproduction stratagems. “You two should play hooky today,” he said, trying to lighten the mood. “Go see a movie at the Grove. Go to the beach house. Hey, we heard you had a few dates with Phil Muskingham.”

  “He’s sweet.”

  “He’s really smitten with you,” said Roslynn.

  “You could do worse than marry that one. I’ll be working for you one day.”

  “Are you going to see Kit?” asked Lisanne.

  “No,” he said adamantly. “No point in sitting vigil. It’s gonna be a circus over there. I’ll wait till he wakes up.”

  “Do you think we should bring him the Buddha?”

  “What?” said Tiff, nonplussed.

  “Maybe it would be something he . . . his assistant could bring it from the house. He’s a Buddhist and maybe—”

  “Let me ask you something, Lisanne. Where was the Buddha when he got whacked on the head? The Buddha didn’t help then, and I sure as hell don’t think it’s gonna to help now.” Roslynn gave him a look. “Roll your eyes, Roz, but that’s why I’m agnostic. Besides,” he added. “Too expensive to have laying around a hospital room. It’d be gone within the hour.”