Still Holding

by Bruce Wagner

  His old house, in Benedict . . .

  (Had the impulse to go in but forgot to ask the lawyers for a key. Was of a mind to sell the whole caboodle, but legally, nothing could be done until issues of conservatorship had been settled. At least that’s what Burke said. He sat and stared, trying to imagine living there again or having lived there.)

  Viv’s house.

  (Imagining himself and Viv inside; then being replaced by Alf.)

  Last stop before Alf’s aerie—the grave. Old haunts . . .

  Rita Julienne Lightfoot

  1950–1996

  “Mother Courage”

  • • •

  THEY DROVE THROUGH the gates, high above Sunset Plaza—minimalist, hipster digs, as if Lenny Bruce still lived and had commissioned a Richard Meier redo. There stood barefooted Alf, grinning from the porch. Both men nervously self-conscious. Kit wore the gray Prada suit that Cela had selected on a rare after-hours expedition. (Maxfields had stayed open late, so he could shop without hassle.)

  Big hugs. Awkward stuff. Alf offered Tula entrée, but the bodyguard declined. More hugs inside. Water and foodstuffs dispensed by a nondescript helper who then vanished for good. Kit was laconic, weighing and measuring words far more than he would in Riverside. They settled into couches. Alf took a brief phone call. Apologized. Said it was business.

  “Think you’re going to sell the house?” said Alf. (To have something to say.)

  “Maybe,” said Kit. “Not sure.”

  “Now, don’t do that,” said Alf, with a pleading, country-western star smile. “Shit, that place should be on the historic registry. We had some crazy times there, huh.”

  “Very crazy!”

  Alf laughed with tension release, and Kit laughed too, spittle boisterous; still finding his way. It got a bit easier—the court and spark exchange of trademark grins. “If those walls could talk! Speaking of which, what ever happened to our old friend Mr. Raffles? What’s he doing now, workin escort?”

  Kit had to be reminded of the canine casanova, more on account of nerves than anything else.

  “He died,” said Kit.

  “Oh shit,” said Alf, genuinely sorrowful. Any sort of loss now had a larger context. “That’s fucked up.” Then, joshing again: “Thought he might have met a nice Beverly Hills socialite and settled down.”

  “Great Danes don’t live too long.”

  “Sure you don’t want a martini?”

  “Can’t. Take all the medicines. For seizure.”

  “Oh, right. Right.” Awkward. “You know, you look really great. And you talk well too—I mean, you’re well-spoken. Much better than the last time I saw you.”

  Wished he hadn’t said it. Sounded patronizing. And it had been too long since they’ve seen each other—his fault.

  Everything his fault . . .

  “Yeah,” said Kit.

  “I been workin,” said Alf, by way of explanation and apology.

  “Me too,” said Kit.

  “Oh yeah?” he said, intrigued.

  “Physical therapy!” said Kit, grinning at the joke.

  “Right!” The attempt at humor shot past. “They’re workin my ass, Dog. But you ain’t missin much—ain’t shit out there. Scripts are all shit. Showbiz is a shambles, dude. I mean, there’s always one or two people out there keepin it real. But hey! You’ve really managed to stay fuckin hidden, man, I’m impressed. Guess your dad’s done a pretty good job. After Osama, you’re the world’s most wanted man!”

  Awkward again—coming in waves.

  “But it’s good over there? I mean, with Burke?”

  “Pretty good. Pretty good.” He shifted on the couch. Reached for the water, drank, set the glass back down. Cleared his throat. “Hey, Alf, I want to ask you something.” Cleared his throat again. Reached again but pulled back his hand before it got to the glass. Shifted. “OK. I want to see Viv. I know she feel bad—feels bad. Maybe afraid. Maybe she’s afraid. Not of me! I want to tell her it is—that it’s OK. I want to tell her that, Alf. That I am OK. That it—it’s cool.”

  “She knows that!” Alf said, too congenially. “She knows that, Kit. She’s smart, she’s really smart. You know how smart she is. But, you know, she’s away.” Lit a cig (skittish actor’s prop). “Yeah, she, uh, was doin a film, you know, the David Gordon Green, while they were on hiatus? That’s why she couldn’t come see you. Pretty much. Cause you know she wanted to . . . but she got really run-down and shit. Then her grannie died. Her mom got real sick too, no lie. Got all jaundiced, but I think she’s cool now. The mom’s cool. Out of the woods and all. But it was fucked up. Been kind of a fucked-up year for her. Not to take away from your fucked-up year.” Levity, then amended gravity.

  “I feel bad for her!” said Kit, earnestly. Winced and shifted some more—stabby nerve-ending pain out of nowhere, per usual. Pressure in the temples. He could deal but hoped his eye didn’t start to twitch; hated that. He could feel Viv’s sorrow and only wanted to comfort her. “I really want to see her!”

  “Here’s the thing, man.” Actors Studio–size drags off cig. “And look—I didn’t think this was a good time to tell you but I guess it’s that old cliché. Ain’t no good time to give bad news.”

  Kit panicked, envisioning the worst. His lips went bloodless and he began to tremble. To Alf, it looked kind of pathetic.

  “She OK? What is happening to her?”

  He shifted into Samuel French/Dramalogue mode—Alf Pacino. “She’s fine,” he said, to allay him. “She’s got a pretty good support system. I guess that—Well, I guess I’m the support system. Now. I’m kind of the one she turns to for comfort. Know what I’m saying? I know it sounds like a bad movie or some . . . fucked-up Mexican soap opera or whatever, but it’s—it’s life, man, it’s what happened. And it wasn’t right away, it didn’t happen right away, you gotta know that. No lie. It was a gradual thing, something that happened out of a grief thing. I mean, that girl was seriously hurting, Dog! Like, crazy out of her mind. Takin pills to sleep. Doin whatever—I don’t mean it that way. But we both were. We spent a lot of time together. Most of that time was all about you. And it just fucking happened. And we knew it was fucked up but we couldn’t do anything to change it. I’m sorry, Kit. I’m sorry about fucking everything, man! I’m sorry we went to that club—I’m sorry you went to that liquor store—and you know what? I’m gonna hire someone to full-on fucking kill that punkass motherfucker in prison—that’ll be my gift to you, bro. And I’m sorry about Viv . . . and I’m—I’m all sorried out. And you know what? I’m glad I can finally be telling you all this—that you’re at my house, and you’re happy and healthy and look fuckin hunky-dory—cause it’s been eatin me up. Been killin Viv, too.”

  “OK.” Laughed. Pains in body. Shifted. Quick water drink—smiled and winced like it was ninety proof. “Bad movie . . . bad Mexican movie!”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah! It’s like, cool. I’m all cool. I’m all, like, yeah. Yeah!”

  “Looks like we’re gonna be doin this Nicole Holofcener thing together. The ‘Lovely and Amazing’ chick?”

  “Lovely and—”

  “We’re doing a movie. It shoots in Maine . . .”

  Softly, Kit said, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

  “Sorry, man.” Alf sheepish and mewling now, redundant with self-contempt. “Too much information. I’m an asshole. Shit.”

  “Shit.”

  “It’s crazy,” said Alf, lamely.

  Spastic laughter from Kit: “Crazy fucked up!”

  Alf managed an agonized grin. His grins were getting old.

  “Hey, know what . . . dawg?” said Kit, slapping his thighs as he stood. “I’m gonna go home. I—I real tired.”

  Alf nodded like a jack-in-the-box while staring at the ground.

  “Thank you for having me as your guest.”

  “You’re family, man.”

  A clumsy O.G. soulshake, segueing to standoffish, gentlemanly hug.

 
; “Tell Viv I am happy because she is happy. And I am happy for you. Because I love you both and I am . . . happy for everybody!”

  Sincere relief. Worst part over. He can smell Viv again. Wants her terribly now—will rush to her as soon as Kit’s gone, rock-hard the whole way. She paces at Beachwood as they speak, a woman awaiting her man’s return from battle, salty and bloodied. This morning, after it was agreed that he would tell Kit everything, she said that she’d shave her pussy. For when Alf came home. He flashed on it, banishing the image.

  “You don’t know what that means—to me. And to Viv. I know she wants to see you, Kit. She just needs a little more time.”

  “Bye, Alf.”

  Walked out. The air was good. The house oppressed like a cage. Tula jumped, opening the passenger door.

  As Kit got in, Alf said, “Hey, Cameron sends her love, Dog!” They pulled away. Alf shouted, “I talked to her last night. She’s in Africa, doing a thing with Bertolucci.”

  Apologies

  A COUPLE OF GAYS shouted from their car while rolling out of Fred Segal.

  “Oh my God! An Undergirl!”

  When the same thing happened a few hours later as she was leaving Elixir (a less flamboyant shout-out from a passing dyke), Becca thought she was being mistaken for someone in a band. Then it happened again, near Agnès B.—but this time, the person scarily invoked her name. She grumpily assumed it had something to do with recent notoriety. The article in the Weekly had come out (an LAPD mugshot of Rusty on the cover, not Elaine) with a photo of Becca inside captioned DOUBLE TROUBLE. One of the tabloids—RUSTY NAILED!—ran a grainy picture of the two walking hand in hand, just like Penélope and Tom. That was actually kind of cool.

  When Becca got home, she went on a crying jag. She was about to call her mom (who had actually been really great about everything) when Annie and Larry phoned. Larry, being the Internet troller that he was, had discovered that Becca was part of an unofficial Six Feet Under Web site paying tribute to the show’s legion of mortuary extras (Undergirls and Underboys) via a rogues’ gallery (the Not Ready for Lifetime Players) of “toe-tag bio” pop-ups called “The Not So Vitals.” The dead, subclassified as “Dying to Be Taft-Hartleyed,” were sorted by personality type, according to popular vote. There were Undertakers and there were Undergivers; a competing Web site for CSI cadavers had since sprung up.

  Larry was giddily on-line as they spoke and assured Becca that she was the most beloved Undergirl by far. Her “gurney-cam” shots (“Dead! From Los Angeles! It’s Becca Mondrain!”) had already registered many thousands of hits—Mr. Levine’s theory being that it was distinctly possible her popularity was based upon the fact that in one or two downloaded stills (each snapped directly from the TV screen as the show aired), part of a tit was visible as she lay on the slab. Becca remembered being forewarned by the casting people that the director of that particular episode wanted her breasts exposed because it tied in with the comic dialogue of the scene. She had agreed, because you really couldn’t see her face. She probably would have agreed anyway.

  In another inset blowup, the Web site lovingly called attention to a production glitch: a strap of Becca’s thong was showing. The whole spectacle made her feel kind of violated, but Larry said she should get over herself. He said it was a hoot—with all the negative attention she’d gotten lately she should feel good about it and just do what everyone else did in this town, which was to find a way to exploit whatever press came their way. It had been Larry’s opinion all along that, instead of running from it, she should be actively milking the look-alike cause célèbre. She totally felt like Monica Lewinsky.

  • • •

  BECCA WAS A little uncomfortable lodging at the Dunsmores—she didn’t like being beholden. (Annie said she could stay with her awhile, but Annie was the kind of girlfriend who would get too dependent, and resent Becca when she finally found her own place.) She could have used the money Cass gave her to pay first and last on an apartment, but then what? In a few months, she’d have been scrambling again. At least this way, she could feel what it was like to have a nest egg. Besides, if she split, the Dunsmores might get grudgey, and that was one more problem she didn’t need. They might try to fuck with her. Since Rusty’s arrest and Grady’s attack of nerves, they’d actually been behaving pretty well. Their attempts to enlist her in ménage à whatevers were half-assed, and she’d made her feelings about that exceptionally clear.

  She thought about going home. She couldn’t even believe Rusty was from Virginia and had lied all that time. He’d lied about a lot of things. (Though she felt ambivalent about him these days, Becca still nursed the hope he hadn’t lied about his feelings for her.) But she kind of needed to stay put awhile because with Rusty about to be extradited, if she flew to Waynesboro it would almost be like they were going back as a couple. Becca didn’t want to be psychically, or tabloidally, linked. She was still kind of in shock about it all.

  One thing she did know was she wanted her mommy. Needed her—called and said she better come to Hollywood, right now. Sang into the phone while Dixie laughed: “Right here, right now, there is no other place I want you to be. Right here, right now, watching the world wake up from history.” They’d share the bed and spoon like when she was little and everything would be all right. Grady had better not perv on her, but Dixie could handle herself—hell, if she handled Daddy, she could sure handle Grady. Besides, the Dunsmores had more bark than bite. Dixie would have fun and be so impressed because the whole Mulholland Drive experience was kind of a magical mystery tour. And poor Dix never got a chance to go anywhere. She actually did visit New York three years ago as a job performance bonus and loved it so much she’d been planning another trip. Who needs loser New York? Everything’s so expensive the only thing a person can afford to do is go stare at that open grave. The dirty Bath Tub, or whatever the fuck they call it. Oh, Becca, you are terrible. C’mon, Mama, don’t you want to come see your baby? Don’t you love your baby? Now course I do, you know I do. Course I’m gonna come. Then c’mon, and she started singing “Right Here Right Now” again. She said the Dunsmores would rent limos and take them to all the fancy clubs and restaurants, the ones Dixie read about in Us Weekly and InStyle.

  Dixie said Sadge had called, looking for her. He’d been trying to reach her ever since Rusty’s arrest. (Annie said he’d been calling her too.) Becca was avoiding him because she knew that whatever sympathy he put on, all Sadge really wanted was to gloat. He was still in love with her and that was his way.

  • • •

  VIV WEMBLEY WAS mortified that the waif whom she took into her home and her trust had been exposed as the lover of a suspected murderer and his associate—the latter being the very man who, for all intents and purposes, had killed her fiancé (and, uh, had creepily made his living impersonating). It was like one of those old Vincent Price movies that Kit used to love. When she thought of this Trojan horse, this Manson girl, roving through her Beachwood Canyon home unsupervised, her blood ran cold. (She wondered if Becca had been in cahoots with Gingher, that other thief and criminal, from the very beginning.) When at their last meeting, as part of an ill-timed, messy catharsis, a hysterical Becca had tearfully begged Viv to believe that she knew nothing about her boyfriend’s or his psycho friend’s “alleged” crimes while at the same time misguidedly confessing to myriad deceits regarding her noncancerous mom, Viv had literally pushed her from the house, run to the front bathroom, and thrown up.

  • • •

  RUSTY FINALLY consented to a visit.

  (She could never bring herself to call him Herke.)

  Grady had already been to see him and supposedly closed the deal on “To Kill a Unicorn,” privileged information that the Dunsmores shared with Becca only after becoming amazingly shitfaced on a hellacious combo plate of she knew not what. Even though the LAPD were aware of its role in ensnaring their suspect, they still didn’t have, as Grady liked to say, a “habeas scriptus.” To date, the prisoner’s creati
on was hearsay (though its whereabouts were a recurring theme of Becca’s station house interrogations). But Grady had a feeling the detectives were beginning to write “Unicorn” off; from everything he had heard, the Virginia D.A. was building a case just fine without it. After all, they had their corpus. Rusty talked about that missing screenplay like it was the Holy Grail, and Grady could understand why. Shit, he’d done the same type of thing when he was incarcerated—a man in prison had to hold on to something—but for the QuestraWorld president and secretary-in-motherfucking-arms, “To Kill a Unicorn” wasn’t so much the grail as it was his ace in the hole, a heat-generating ticket to ride in the Hollywood Derby. Rusty said it was buried in the desert somewhere, to be revealed at a future date. Mama Cass said her husband was a fool for believing him, but Grady fronted seventy-five hundred into his jailhouse account on good faith before declaring the whole topic verboten—it being the pardoned parolee’s superstitious opinion that even mentioning “the property” would not only endanger his own actual freedom but quite possibly jeopardize the Dunsmores’ most valuable holding, ergo threatening the very existence of QuestraWorld itself. He was certain the Mulholland digs were bugged.

  Becca told Annie she couldn’t understand how anyone survived even a minute behind bars. It was funny—now he looked more like Russell Crowe than ever, all tousle-haired and gorgeous, sulky and dreamily wronged. Even his sweat smelled sweet. He told her he was sorry he’d “withheld” certain things and that he never meant to hurt her. When she asked if he loved her, he lowered his head like the genius in A Beautiful Mind, mumbling, “Pretty much, yeah. I pretty much did. And do.” She was glad he tacked on “and do.”

  She asked about his crimes, but he simply shook his head. “Has your mother been to see you?” The tender question came unexpectedly from her depths. Again he shook his head, with forlorn indifference. He hadn’t really known the woman—his mother—all that long, he said. Their first meeting had occurred just three years ago. Becca presumed that Cassandra’s hypothesis was correct and that Rusty had been raised as an orphan. (Perhaps the tragedy had been set in motion when he decided to seek his ancestry.) Now was not the time to probe; it was a story she might never know. He wondered if she knew anything about the release date of the Spike Jonze film. Becca said she’d heard it was sometime in the fall. “Ah,” he said, with a scampish wink. “Did a little A.D. tell you?” He said that Grady told him there was something in the paper about his role being chopped down to nothing. Becca had heard the same thing on Access Hollywood but said she didn’t really know anything about it.