by Anne Rice
“You just may see your daughter in the flesh!” I said.
I made sure my back was to the little crowd of cops and reporters as I huddled there with Alex and G.G. and told them everything Blair’s man had found out.
“Now all I have to do,” I said, “is stay out of the slammer for another twenty-four hours. I know she’s coming. She’s less than two hundred miles away.”
“Yes,” Alex sighed, “that’s all, unless she turned around and went other direction, as far as she could from here.”
He beckoned to the reporters. “Come on, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “let’s all go into the Twin Peaks bar now and I’ll treat you to a round of drinks.”
[7]
AT eleven forty-five P.M., Susan Jeremiah’s white Cadillac stretch limousine lodged itself uneasily in the narrow driveway, and the reporters mobbed it, cameras flashing, as Susan stepped out of the rear door, smiling under the brim of her scarlet cowboy hat, and waved to us at the living room windows just above.
G.G., Alex, and I pushed our way down the steps. We were all turned out in black dinner jackets and boiled shirts, cummerbunds, patent leather shoes, the whole bit.
“You’re going to miss the film, ladies and gentlemen, if you don’t hurry!” Alex said genially. “Now everybody has a press pass? Who does not have a pass?”
Dan went across the street to the plainclothesmen in the Oldsmobile. No need for anyone to get crazy. He had four passes for them compliments of Susan, and we were now leaving to go up to Sanchez, turn right, then go down Eighteenth to Castro then right again and down to the theater, which was actually only one block from here.
It seemed to be going amicably enough, but then Dan gave me the signal that he was going on with the cops.
“Can you believe it!” G.G. muttered. “Are they holding him hostage? Will they beat him with a rubber hose if we make a mad dash?”
“Just move on, son, and keep smiling,” Alex said.
As we slid one by one into the blue-velvet-lined car, I saw Blair, cigar in hand, opposite Susan, in the little jump seat, wearing the lavender tuxedo Belinda had described in her letter, and the inevitable white mink-lined cloak. The car was already full of smoke.
Susan put her arm around me immediately and gave me a quick press of her smooth cheek.
“Son of a bitch, you sure as hell know how to launch a picture, Walker,” she said in her slow Texas drawl. Her red silk rodeo shirt had three inch fringe on it, and a crust of multi-colored embroidery set off with rhinestones and pearls. The pants appeared to be red satin, her boots too were red. Her cowboy hat was resting on her right knee.
But the woman herself obscured the brilliance of the clothing. She had a sleek dark-skinned radiance to her, a cleanness of bone and line that suggested a perfect admixture of Indian blood. Her black hair was luxuriant even though it was clipped short and brushed back from her face. And if Belinda had gotten all that right in her letter, she’d left out a few things. The woman was sexy. I mean conventionally sexy. She had big breasts and an extremely sensuous mouth.
“Blair’s told you everything?” I asked. We were still doing a bit of kissing and handshaking but the limo was backing out.
Susan nodded: “You’ve got until six in the morning to give yourself up.”
“Exactly. That’s the max we could get. Might have been better if Bonnie and Marty hadn’t joined brother Daryl in New Orleans this evening to personally prevail upon the New Orleans police to dig up the garden surrounding my mother’s house.”
“The lying shits,” Susan said. “Why the hell don’t you give them both barrels, Walker? Release Belinda’s letter not to the police but right to the press.”
“Can’t do it, Susan. Belinda wouldn’t want it,” I said.
The limousine was turning on Sanchez. I could see one car of plainclothesmen in front of us, and the other right behind.
“So what’s our strategy?” Blair said. “No one’s heard from her, but that is hardly surprising under the circumstances. Her best bet may be to show up at the premiere tonight.”
“That’s exactly what I’m hoping she’ll do,” I said. “The announcement was in the evening Examiner.”
“Yes, and we ran time on the rock stations,” Susan said, “and did handbills on Castro and Haight, too.”
“All right, suppose she shows up,” G.G. asked. “Then what do we do?” We were slowing down now that we had turned on Eighteenth. In fact, there was a heavy traffic jam as we approached Castro. Typical late-night party atmosphere all around. Music pumping from the bars and from the speakers of the tramp electric guitarist on the corner and out of the window of the upstairs record shop.
“The question is, what are you willing to do?” Blair asked, leaning forward and fixing me with his eyes.
“Yeah, that’s what me and this guy here have been talking about,” Susan said gesturing to Blair. “Like we’re down to the wire now, you’re facing jail in the morning. Now, are you willing to make a run for it, Walker, if it comes to that?”
“Look, I’ve been sitting in the living room of my house for the last five hours thinking about nothing but that very question. And the answer is simple. It’s just like the exhibit. My needs and Belinda’s needs are in total synchronization. We’ve got to get hold of each other and get out. If she wants a divorce later she can have it, but right now she needs me just about as much as I need her.”
I could see Susan and Blair exchanging glances. Alex, who had taken the other jump seat opposite, was watching too.
And strangely enough I was getting nervous, upset. I could feel my hand shaking. I could feel my heart accelerating. I wasn’t sure why this was happening just now.
“You have anything to say, Alex?” G.G. asked a little timidly. “I’ve got her birth certificate in my pocket. It’s got my name on it, and I’m ready to do whatever Jeremy wants me to do.”
“No, son,” Alex said. He looked at me. “I realized in New Orleans that Jeremy was going down the line with this thing. As I see it, his getting away somewhere long enough to marry Belinda is the only chance he’s got. I think those lawyers would admit that, too, if one of them wasn’t so cold-blooded and the other one wasn’t so scared. I just don’t see how you’re going to do it. You need anything from me, you can have it. I’ll be all right no matter what happens. At this point I’m just about the most famous innocent bystander involved.”
“Alex, if any of this winds up hurting you—” I started.
“It hasn’t,” said Susan offhandedly. “Everybody in Tinseltown’s talking about Alex. He’s coming out of it a hero, and real clean. You know the old saying, ‘Just so long as they spell his name right ... ‘“
Alex nodded, unruffled, but I wondered if it was that simple.
“I love you, Alex,” I said softly. I was really on the edge of losing it suddenly, and I wasn’t sure why.
“Jeremy, stop talking like we’re going to a funeral,” Alex said. He reached over and gave my shoulder a nudge. “We’re on our way to a premiere.”
“Listen, man,” Susan said, “I know what he’s feeling. He’s going into the slammer at six A.M.” She looked at me. “How do you feel about splitting out of here tonight whether Belinda shows or not?”
“I’d do anything to get to Belinda,” I said.
Blair sat back, crossed his legs, folded his arms, and looked at Susan in that clever knowing way again. Susan was sitting back, her long legs stretched out as far as they could go in the limo in front of her, and she just smiled back and shrugged.
“Now all we need is Belinda,” she said.
“Yeah, and we’ve got cops to the left of us and cops to the right of us,” Alex said casually. “And at the theater cops in front and back.”
We had rounded the corner onto Castro, and now I could see the line, three and four deep, all the way back from the theater to Eighteenth.
Two enormous klieg lights set out in front of the theater were sweeping the sky with their pale-b
lue beams. I read the marquee again, saw those lights flickering all the way up on the giant sign that read Castro, and I thought, If she isn’t here, somewhere, just to see this, my heart is going to break.
The limo was crawling towards the theater entrance, where a roped walkway had been made, to the left of the box office, leading to the front doors.
It might damn well have been an opening at Grauman’s Chinese Theater, the crowd was so thick and making so much noise. The limousine was turning heads. People were obviously trying to see through the tinted glass. G.G. was searching the crowd, I could see that. But Susan was sitting there like someone had said, “Freeze.”
“Oh, Belinda,” I whispered. “Just be here for your own sake, honey. I want you to see this.”
I was really losing it. I was coming apart inside. Up till now the whole thing had been endurable moment by moment, but after so many days shut up in the cocoon of the house, this spectacle worked on me like sentimental music. Yes, really, coming unglued.
Susan picked up the phone and spoke to the driver:
“Listen, you stay out front till we come out. Double-park, take the ticket, whatever—OK, OK, just so long as you’re there when we come out the doors.” She hung up. “This is a fucking mob scene all right.”
“Worse than New York?”
“You better believe it, look.”
I saw what she meant. The side of Castro Street opposite the theater was packed. The oncoming traffic wasn’t moving at all. A couple of cops were trying to loosen up the jam ahead of us. Another pair were trying to keep the intersection clear. Everywhere I saw familiar faces, waiters who worked in the local diners, the salespeople from the local shops, neighbors who always said hello when they passed. Somewhere out there was Andy Blatky and Sheila and lots of old friends I’d called this afternoon. Everybody I knew would be there actually.
We were moving closer inch by inch. There was no air in the limousine. I felt like I was going to start bawling on the spot. But I knew the worst hadn’t come yet. It would when Belinda appeared up there on the screen. That is, unless Belinda appeared right here first.
And it was happening at the Castro, of all places, our neighborhood show, the elegant old-fashioned theater where she and I had seen so many films together, where we’d snuggled up together in the dark on quiet week nights, anonymous and safe.
The limo had angled to the curb. The crowd was really pushing on the red velvet ropes. The box office had a big sign saying SOLD OUT. The local television stations had been allowed to set up their video cameras just beyond it. And a little group of people were arguing at the far right door, where a hand-lettered sign read PRESS ONLY. And somebody was shouting. It looked like a woman in spike heels and an awful leopard skin coat was getting turned away, but not without a noisy fight.
People looked bewildered as the plainclothesmen got out of the car in front of us and went straight towards the lobby door. Dan was right behind them. He turned when he got to the video cameras and watched as our driver got out of the limo and came around to open the door.
“You go first, darlin’, this is your audience,” Alex said to Susan. Susan put on her red cowboy hat. Then we helped her to climb over us and get out.
A roar went up from the young people on either side of the ropes. Then cheers went up from everywhere, in the intersection up ahead and across the street. Camera flashes were going off all around.
Susan stood in the brilliant light under the marquee waving to everybody, then she gestured for me to get out of the car. The flashes were blinding me a little. Another cheer went up. Kids were clapping on either side of us.
I heard a chorus of voices shout: “Jeremy, we’re for you! .... Hang in there, Jeremy!” And I gave a little silent prayer of thanks for all the liberals and crazies, the gentle freaks, and the plain ordinary tolerant San Franciscans here. They weren’t burning my books in this town.
There were screams and whistles coming from everywhere. G.G. got his big round of applause as he stepped out. Then I heard a shrill voice:
“Signora Jeremiah! Eeeh, Signora Jeremiah!” It was coming from our right. In a thick Italian accent it continued: “Remember, Cinecittá, Roma! You promise me a pass!”
Then an explosion went off inside my head. Cinecittá, Roma. I turned from right to left trying to locate the voice. The coat, the awful leopard coat I just saw, it was Belinda’s! Those spike heels, they were Belinda’s. Italian accent or no Italian accent, that was Belinda’s voice! Then I felt G.G.’s hand clamp down on my arm. “Don’t make a move, Jeremy!” he whispered in my ear. “But where is she?”
“Signora Jeremiah! They won’t let me into the theater!”
At the press door! She was staring right at me through big black-rimmed Bonnie-style glasses, the dark-brown dyed hair slicked straight back from her face. And it was that ghastly leopard coat. Two men were trying to stop her from coming forward. She was cursing at them in Italian. They were pushing her back towards the ropes.
“Hold on there, just a minute there,” Susan called out. “I know that gal, everything’s OK, just calm down, it’s OK.”
The crowd erupted suddenly with a new explosion of cheers and shrieks. Blair had gotten out of the limousine and was throwing up both his arms. Whistles, howls.
Susan was striding towards the men who were shoving Belinda. G.G. held me tighter. “Don’t look, Jeremy!” he whispered.
“Don’t move, Jeremy!” Blair said under his breath. He was turning from right to left to give the crowd a good view of the lavender tuxedo. They were really eating it up.
Susan had reached the scene of the ruckus. The men had let go of Belinda. Belinda had a steno pad in her hand and a camera around her neck. She was talking like crazy to Susan in Italian. Did Susan speak Italian? The plainclothesmen from the car behind us were glancing over as they went to join the first pair, who were standing behind the video cameras right by the doors. Dan was watching Belinda. Belinda let loose with another loud, shrill riff of Italian, obviously complaining about the people at the press door. Susan was nodding. Susan had her arm around Belinda, was clearly trying to calm her down.
“Move forward,” G.G. said between his teeth. “You keep looking and the cops will be all over her. Move.”
I was trying to do what he was telling me, trying to put one foot before the other. Susan was there. Susan would handle it. And then I saw Belinda’s eyes again, looking right at me, through the little knot of people around her, and I saw her beautiful little babymouth suddenly smile.
I was paralyzed. Blair shoved right past me and G.G. He was throwing more kisses to the crowd. He let the cloak swirl around him.
“Five minutes till midnight, ladies and gentlemen, time to put on your best Midnight Mink.”
More screams, catcalls, whistles. He beckoned for us to follow him now. “Jeremy, go to the door,” G.G. whispered.
Another roar went up as Alex stepped out of the car. Then there was solid applause, respectful applause, moving back from the ropes all through the people on the sidewalk on both sides of the street.
Alex nodded his thanks in all directions, took a long slow bow. Then he put his hand on my arm and gently propelled me forward as he greeted those who pressed in.
“No, darlin’, I’m not in the movie, just here to see a really good film.”
“Yes, sweetheart, good to see you.” He stopped to sign an autograph. “Yes, darlin’, thank you, thank you, yes, and you want to know a secret? That was my favorite film, too.”
The plainclothesmen were watching us. Not her, us. Two of them turned and went on into the lobby. Dan hung back.
Belinda and Susan were at the press door. Belinda gave Susan a peck on the cheek, then went inside.
All right, she was in! I let G.G. practically shove me into the lobby, too. Dan and the last two plainclothesmen brought up the rear.
I was as close to heart failure as ever in my life. The lobby too was jammed, with ropes marking off our path to the doors. W
e couldn’t see over to the right side, where Belinda had gone in.
But within seconds we were inside the theater proper. And I saw the very back row of the center section had been marked off for us. The plainclothes guys sat down across the aisle from us in the back row of the side section. Dan stayed with them. The three rows in front of us, clear across the center, were already full of reporters, some of whom had just been outside my house. There were columnists from all the local papers, several beautifully turned out socialites, and a number of other writers and people connected with the local arts, some of them turning to nod or give a little wave. Andy Blatky and Sheila, who’d gotten their special passes, were already down front. Sheila threw me a kiss. Andy gave a right-on fist.
And there was Belinda standing over on the right side, chewing a wad of gum as she scribbled like mad on her steno pad. She looked up, squinted at us through the glasses, then started across the center section through the empty row right in front of the roped-off seats.
“Mr. Walker, you give me an autograph!” she screamed in the Italian accent. Everybody was looking at her. I was petrified. That’s it, I thought. My heart is going to give out now.
Alex and Blair had gone on into the row ahead of me. So had G.G., and I could see him watching her, blank-faced, probably as scared as I was. Susan was standing in the aisle with her thumbs in her belt.
Belinda came right up to me, her mouth working fast with the gum, and shoved the exhibit catalog in front of me along with a ballpoint pen.
For a second I couldn’t do anything but look right at her, at her blue eyes peering out from under the brown eyelashes and brown eyebrows and the slick brown hair. I tried to breathe, to move, to take the pen, but I couldn’t.
She was smiling. Oh, beautiful Belinda, my Belinda. And I could feel my lips moving, feel my own smile coming back. The fucking hell with the whole world if it was watching.
“Sign the kid’s autograph, Walker,” Susan said. “Before they let in the thundering herd.”
I looked down at the catalog and saw the color print of Belinda, Come Back circled in red. Under it was written: “I love you.” Her unmistakable script.
