EQMM, December 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Danny whispered in my ear not to lose it, as he really needed me for this film and tomorrow's shoot is a really important one. That made me feel good and needed and isn't that what we all want. But he's right, it will be my first nude scene. Joanie's too, I'm pretty sure, though she seems a lot less stressed about it than me. I didn't even know until last night, as Danny feeds us the script page by page. He says it's often done this way in film.

  "Run,” Father Gregory urged Erin. “Run away, right now.” The clock downstairs struck ten and he noted that the house was silent all around him. He had not noticed when the monsignor completed his mumbled decades.

  The following day she wrote: I don't really feel all that nervous at all today. It's not that awkward for me. I definitely am not worried about how I look. I'll look good no matter what in a room full of guys, ha-ha. Danny says he's not looking for anything graphic, it's just a love scene between the two main characters played by Joanie and me. We didn't even know we were supposed to be romantically involved until two days ago, though Joanie didn't seem as surprised as me. She's a pretty cool mama, though. In any case, it's not going to be any worse than those videos of high school girls getting sloshed on beer showing what they got and making out for the camera! Probably a lot better, really, as our film deals with relationships, not just sex. I'm really kind of excited about today.

  The next several pages provided no titillating follow-up to Erin's previous entry, giving Father Gregory hope that she had decided against going through with the scene after all. A week's worth of pages was adorned with nothing more helpful than sketched portraits of the elfin girl and these revealed nothing to the priest's eyes other than a subtle humanizing of the features. The pointed ears had been diminished and rounded to almost normal shape and dimension. The same could be said of the eyes, as well. Again, Father Gregory felt that jolt of recognition, but his mind could not capitalize upon it before it faded away into caricature. He was both relieved and puzzled by the absence of Erin's own commentary on her first nude scene.

  The next written entry he came upon, however, failed to soothe his worries, but rather served to inflame them. It was dated July 5.

  Danny has been so sweet to me since we finished that last scene and I began to lose it again—the tunnels. I guess I should have suspected he felt something special for me. After all the fuss I made (I just had no idea how stressful it would be for me—I guess I'm more old-fashioned than I thought) I'm surprised I wasn't fired. Instead, he said the “shoot” was a good one. I really didn't lose it till afterwards. It's the professional in me. He also gave everybody the rest of the week off. He thinks we've earned it. Besides, it's Fourth of July weekend and the town is packed and I couldn't get off from work if I wanted to! But every moment I do get off, we've been together—lots of beach time and even some “alone” time, though this isn't easy to come by in our place, even with Danny having his own room. He says Joanie has a little crush on him and he doesn't want any more trouble on the set, so we have to wait for her to be out. I don't like the secrecy part, but I love what we're hiding! I'm feeling so alive again!

  On a slightly downer note, the living room has become party central for the long weekend courtesy of Francis and Harpo. Everybody's having a great time, which is why most all the kids are down here at the shore anyway, but it makes it hard to get any sleep or privacy and also not to wake up with a hangover, which I have at this moment. I feel like any second I'm going to throw up everywhere. Harpo says the best cure is a hair of the dog, by which he means a Bloody Mary first thing in the morning. Yuck!

  The etching that adorned this page showed a young woman who had been, at last, divested of her otherworldly features and now gazed out at Father Gregory in human form. The idealized face revealed the pierced eyebrow and nostril that had become so favored of the current generation in America and was so familiar a sight to Father Gregory in his homeland. Clearly, Erin was in love, the priest thought sadly, for when else do we see ourselves as beautiful as angels?

  He tapped the page with one of his long fingers and said, “I have seen you, young lady. I know I have.” Still, the familiarity refused to coalesce into conscious memory and he sighed with tired frustration. “You are looking in all the wrong places for what you seek,” he admonished Erin. “I wish I could help you, child."

  The wind picked up from the east and the sound of the distant surf suddenly drummed outside his window as if the great ocean had crept up to the rectory's foundation. His curtains billowed out to tickle his cheeks and drape his shoulders like ghostly hands and he arose quickly to shut the window on the cooling night air. In the room below, he heard Monsignor Cahill cough, then call out something incoherent in his sleep. Father Gregory felt as if an evil thought had made itself felt across the dark world and he grew afraid for Erin—afraid for the possibilities she had allowed to creep up on her like wolves to the very edge of the campfire's light, just out of sight, but edging ever closer as she allowed the flames to die down. He had no faith in Danny's love.

  With a great dread, he resumed his seat and returned to the journal, and when he saw that the next entry was dated two weeks after the last, his heart sank, for what young woman happy in love would fail to write of it for so long?

  July 19—Danny's friend from New York has been keeping us all stoked. It seems he's everyone's connection at film school and now that Danny's invited him down to stay for free, he's been very generous. Too generous. I can't remember the last time I was really straight. Not sure I like it altogether.

  Joanie's not talking to me much anymore. I think she found out about Danny and me. It was inevitable, I guess. In any case, since Canton's arrival, Danny and I haven't spent much time in private—Danny shares his room with him and they're always together. I wonder how long he's been invited to stay. I hope not much longer. Strange days have found us.

  July 23—I'm not believing this! Joanie comes storming in today and confronts Danny and the boys, demanding to know if it's true what she's hearing about the website. Danny's not one for confrontation, so he just gave her that lazy smile of his and walked away. I don't even know what website she's talking about. Harpo and Francis were already stoned and a little drunk and thought the whole thing was hilarious. I have no idea what's going on! Joanie said she wasn't surprised at that and that maybe I should ask my boyfriend. She also told me to ask him why ever since we did our “famous” scene Danny and crew no longer seem interested in finishing the movie. It is odd. I just thought it was because we're all too stoned to concentrate just now. Yet another reason for Canton to clear out of here and take his dope with him! When I ask Danny about him, he just smiles and says, soon, darling, soon

  I should not have taken up the diary, Father Gregory admonished himself angrily—how foolish of me! He could do nothing for this deluded girl, he reminded himself, as all these events had already occurred and he knew neither her identity nor current whereabouts. He had no wish to complete the brief and disjointed chronicle of Erin's days at the shore and add to the knowledge he had already garnered and the sad helplessness it produced. Her casual and unwitting commentaries served only to illuminate the predatory nature of man's relationships when not informed by love—she mistook the dark grey bodies that brushed against her flanks in the murky waters as fellow travelers while Father Gregory stood unnoticed on shore waving his arms in futile warning. What a ridiculous state I've gotten myself into, he thought, and pushed the journal away.

  The bedside clock showed that the midnight hour was fast approaching and the house was completely silent now—Monsignor Cahill had, at last, settled into a restful slumber. Father Gregory opened the single drawer in his bedside stand and removed the small, flat box of Indian cigarettes from the clutter within and extracted one. Somewhat guiltily, but without hesitation, he struck a match to it and then hastened in his stocking feet to throw open his window once more.

  The ceaseless turmoil of the sea and its assault upon the land returned to his ears with astonishin
g power and closeness as he blew out a stream of clove-scented smoke. The titanic struggle lay just the other side of the great dunes, with their thick covering of wind-twisted, maritime forest. A large autumn moon picked out everything in minute and silvered detail, casting shadows so black that they appeared as holes in the world.

  Father Gregory leaned out into the soft, juddering night and smoked his secret cigarette until his own actions reminded him of one of Erin's first entries. A young American girl and a middle-aged priest from India both sneaking cigarettes, he mused; exposing ourselves to the great, indifferent, and carnivorous world. How weak and human we all are, he thought. He stubbed out the cigarette and placed it in a tin he kept for that purpose; then returned to the journal, determined to complete his reading of it

  The next entry was a week later, July 30—What Joanie warned me about is true! I caught them sniggering and giggling over Harpo's laptop and snuck up on them and there it was. The scene of me and Joanie. They were all so stoned and drunk they never noticed me standing there. There was a whole bunch of guys crowded around (the party never stops here!).

  I've never seen it before, at least not all of it. Danny showed me little snippets but kept putting me and Joanie off, saying he was still working on the editing. Then Canton showed up and, somehow, it all got lost in the shuffle of nonstop partying. It wasn't like I had pictured it to be. It was pretty much like I thought it wouldn't be. Now, I know why Danny insisted we all get a little high before the filming. I also know why we've never exactly gotten back to completing the film. It is complete. At least the scene he wanted. Now I understand. Our scene on his website is paying for Danny and the boys’ summer.

  I don't know why I didn't start screaming—I just couldn't. All I could do was slink away again. I grabbed a blanket and walked right back out. None of the guys even noticed me they were so busy hooting and hollering over the video. It only sunk in later that Joanie had moved out without saying goodbye. Her bed was stripped and her closet stood open, empty. I didn't much like her, but now I feel so abandoned and miss her so! I hope she didn't think I knew what was going on or that I was a real part of this. I'm sleeping on the beach tonight and that's where I'm writing this. I've got a few bathroom things in my bag and can clean up in the ladies’ room at work.

  I wish Danny would find me and just explain all this away. I know that makes me sound so stupid, but I can't help it. I still love him, I think.

  August 10—He was in today and sat at my station. I thought he had come looking for me until I came to take his order. When he looked up from the menu he seemed kind of surprised, like he didn't expect to see me there. I don't think he was all that happy to see me, really. I looked a sight, I know, but it's just about impossible to stay clean living this way. My boss looked at me funny this morning and asked if everything was all right, and Danny was giving me that same look—like he smelled something bad. It's probably me.

  There were two guys with him that I had never seen before and they gave me that blank look you get a lot as a waitress; then one of them suddenly starts to grin, nudges his buddy in the ribs, and whispers something in his ear. Then they both start to giggle like little girls. Danny gave them a look that shut them up and I just wanted to hug him for it, but before I could say anything he fired off his order for breakfast, and then, like an afterthought, asked if I was planning on coming back to the apartment.

  I stood there like an idiot with my stupid pen in my hand, like I was going to write down his every precious word, hoping, I guess, that he was about to ask me to come back. No, to be honest, that he was going to beg me to come back. But all I could think to say was, “Why?"

  "Because you never have paid any rent and I have interested parties for that room.” His expression never changed; still the same cool, go-to-hell look I thought was so yummy just a few days ago. Then, like he was doing me a real favor, he added, “If you're really hard up for a place, you can stay in my room for a while.” His buddies started their giggling again.

  I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe I was picturing driving my pen through his eye, but all I can remember is a kind of darkness dropping over my face like a veil; then suddenly I was leaning over and whispering into his ear, “My name isn't Erin, you bastard, and I just turned sixteen last month."

  When I stood back and looked down on him the color had gone from his face and he didn't look cool anymore. For once, he didn't look cool at all, and it made me feel good.

  "I didn't know that,” he croaked like a frog. “You never told me that!"

  "You never bothered to ask, you son of a bitch,” I hissed at him. His buddies just sat there looking uncomfortable and confused at not knowing what was going on.

  "We've got to talk about this,” he whined.

  "You're damn right we do,” I said. “You owe me for the video and a ticket home! You meet me after work at the 45th Street beach.” I've set up a little lean-to in the high dunes there and that's where I'm writing this. He nodded his head like a little boy caught doing something wrong, but when I looked back over my shoulder at him, he was looking at me hard ... real hard. “Eight o'clock,” I said, and he dropped his eyes real quick.

  "Sixteen,” Father Gregory groaned. “Dear God,” then, with a shudder of real dread, he turned the page to discover that he had arrived at the final entry. He noticed a slight tremor in his hands. Only a few lines remained and were not preceded by date or time.

  He's been walking up and down the beach for about half an hour looking for me in the bright moonlight. Every now and then I can just hear him calling my name over the crashing of the surf. I don't know why I just didn't walk out to him when he first got here, but I didn't. Instead I've been watching.

  Just when I had worked up the nerve to come out of the dunes and let him know I was there he picked up something from the beach. It looked like a long piece of driftwood and I stopped. It's nothing, I know. People pick up things from the beach all the time. Yet, somehow, in the moonlight, it didn't feel the same, so I came back to my little hideout to write this and work up my nerve.

  I'm gonna go back down and talk to him ‘cause I can't let him get away with what he's done. He's going to pay me what I'm worth! Once he sees this journal he'll know I'm serious as a heart attack—so here I go!

  Father Gregory thumbed through the remaining pages but found no further entries or drawings. It simply ended with her brave little declaration, “So here I go!"

  The priest closed the journal and looked over to his bedside clock then back to the crimson-stained tome he held in his hand. It was nearly one. He sighed as he contemplated the eternity of hours that stood between him and daylight, and knew that he would not sleep until he had spoken once more with Chief J. “What fools we are,” he murmured. “God help us all."

  * * * *

  Father Gregory sat over his now-cooling third cup of tea awaiting the police chief's pronouncement. It appeared to him that his friend was a slow reader and he tapped the tabletop with impatience until he noticed that Chief Hall had ceased reading altogether and was staring at him over his glasses. He stopped immediately and murmured, “Sorry.” The chief said nothing and returned to his interrupted study.

  The little priest allowed his eyes to roam through the interior of the Luna Cafe. There were even fewer people than the last time they were in to breakfast together, the cooling season signaling the continued migration of non-islanders to their primary homes, or to warmer climes altogether. Those that remained seemed to speak and laugh too loudly, the forced gaiety, Father Gregory thought, of those left behind. Even their waitress appeared affected by the atmosphere, spilling coffee, mixing up their orders, and forgetting their silverware. It was an altogether frustrating morning after a sleepless night. The closing of the book snapped the little priest's attention back to the matter at hand. “Well,” he asked impatiently, “do you not see why I am concerned?"

  Julian removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his long, narrow nose without answerin
g.

  Father Gregory could not contain himself, “Can you not see for yourself? I believe a crime may have been committed against this poor girl, that her life may be in danger ... or worse."

  "Yes,” Julian agreed, “if this journal is to be believed, I think a number of crimes have been committed.” He paused and turned the book over in his hands, flipping it from back to front, as if the covers might reveal something the text had hidden. “Father, you know that this journal could not have been in the water very long, no more than a few hours, I think."

  The implication was lost on the excited priest. “But the circumstances, Chief J,” Father Gregory exclaimed. “Her last entry has her meeting this young man in the darkness of the beach. He is waiting for her with some kind of club, to do her harm, I'm thinking."

  "Driftwood,” the chief corrected him quietly.

  "Pish posh, Mr. Policeman,” Father Gregory shot back, making Julian smile in spite of himself. “Certainly, a piece of driftwood may serve as a cudgel!"

  "Yes,” Chief Hall agreed, quickly recovering his composure, then added, “Almost anything might serve as a weapon, but I have no body ... no female victim, Father."

  "Well, thank God for that,” the priest cried with relief. “Though I guess that it is possible she may have been thrown into the sea and never...” He dribbled to a halt as the full import of Chief Hall's remark sunk in. “No ‘female’ victim, did you say, Chief J? Does a male victim exist?"

  The policeman looked evenly at the priest and answered, “Yes. He's in the county morgue these past two weeks. He washed up a few towns south of here at the end of August and has been a John Doe, or should I say, a Danny Doe ever since. The only identification on him was a tattoo of that name and, so far, there have been no takers ... until now."