by Sloane Tanen
“This is your island?” Joe asked in astonishment. He started laughing like a maniac. “What are the odds, Ned? It’s like a miracle.”
“That’s one way of looking at it,” Ned seethed. “How did you find this place?”
“Find it?” Joe laughed. “It found us.”
“Don’t you get it? This is mine.” He looked like he might start to cry. “Nobody can be here, ever. It’s mine!”
“Nobody wants your stupid island, guy,” Milan said.
“And, you,” Ned shrank in horror. “Of all people, you, here.”
Milan shrugged as Ned clutched his chest.
“This has to stop. You have to just go away now.”
“Go away?” Joe laughed, jumping off the floor and running over to Ned to give him a hug. He obviously was a little rusty on reading social cues. Joe had a huge smile on his face. “You’re a hero, Ned. Forget everything else.”
Ned stiffened in his arms. “I don’t want to be a hero. I want to be alone.”
“This, my friends,” Joe announced to us, “is Ned Harrison.” He wrapped his arm around Ned’s rigid shoulder.
“No way,” I said, eyes stretching. I didn’t think I was capable of being starstruck anymore, but apparently I was.
“Who?” Milan asked.
“You mean Blood Thunder?” Cisco asked, his stupidity outpacing his usual ignorance.
“Oh, for the love of God,” Ned said, shaking off Joe and pinching the bridge of his nose. “This must be a nightmare. Wake up, Ned,” he said, slapping his own cheek. “Wake up!”
I was speechless.
Ned Harrison was Dan Brown before Dan Brown. Blood Thunder was his most famous character. His Dirty Harry, his 007, his Harry Potter, his Sherlock Holmes. He’d written many books since the Blood Thunder series, but none came close in popularity. He wrote the series way before I was even born, so it had been a long time since he’d had that kind of commercial success.
I liked the Blood Thunder books, but some of his later books were way better. A Pair of Small Hands was one of my all-time favorite books. I should have recognized him from his book jacket—that moustache was unforgettable, but he was at least twenty years older now.
“Man, my dad read me all of your books growing up,” Cisco said, trying for sweetness but just sounding like a jackass. “They should be movies, man! They’d be huge! You gotta make them movies!”
“I don’t make movies,” Ned boiled, staring at Cisco.
“You know, I think you should do a prequel like they did with Star Wars or Star Trek. I would love to play a young Blood,” Cisco continued. He really didn’t have a clue. “You could call it Young Blood. Did you see Captain Marvel? I could do it justice, man.”
“This has got to be a bad joke,” Ned said, collapsing in the middle of the floor like an empty laundry bag.
“Bluuud Thundah,” Cisco annunciated, perhaps by way of an audition. Ugh.
Silence.
“Oh man,” Cisco continued, really working himself up now, “Eve would be an awesome young Violet. Look at her. It’s like type casting 101.”
Eve cocked her big head to the side and smiled a bit uncertainly. I would kill her if she ever tried to lay a hand on Violet—at any age.
“Hey!” Milan snapped. “What about me?”
“You’re not Violet. You’re more of a Rebecca. Right, Ned?”
“Get dressed,” Ned ordered from the floor, his voice lowering instead of rising this time. “I’m flying you out of here. Now.”
“That’s fine with me, writer man,” Chaz said, quickly untangling himself from some sheets and looking around for his clothes. “I totally get that we are in your space, Mr. Harrison, and I am more than happy to evacuate so your creative juices can flow.” Chaz kicked the sheets in Jonah’s face.
“Hey!” Jonah snapped, looking at Chaz like a wounded dog.
“Hey what? Get dressed. Get your little girlfriend dressed. We’re getting outta here!”
Jonah looked at me. I looked away. I was furious about being left in the rain like an old beach towel. I got the sinking feeling our “relationship” wasn’t going to survive our rescue.
“Excuse me, Ed,” Milan turned to Ned while buttoning her shirt, “but aren’t you even slightly relieved that we’re not dead? I mean, that’s pretty harsh, mister! I don’t care if you have enough money to buy a thousand crap islands. Do you have any idea what we’ve been through?” She was on the verge of tears.
“Apologies,” Ned said, softening ever so slightly at her tears.
“Just get me out of here,” she cried, scrambling for her clothes. Cisco offered his help with her shirt. “I don’t need your help!” she snapped at him.
“Whoa,” Cisco stopped, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “What’s your problem?”
“Oooooh, Eve would make such a good Violet,” Milan screeched, imitating Cisco.
“For real, Milan? You’re mad at me about that? We’re finally getting out of here, and you’re mad at me? Besides, you don’t even know what Violet looks like. Believe me, you’d rather be Rebecca.”
“Thanks a lot!” Eve barked. Milan smiled at Cisco.
“Oh, shut up, all of you!” Ned said. Then he paused and took a series of deep, deliberate breaths. I could almost hear him practicing oms.
“I need to sleep,” he said, lifting himself off the floor. He was much calmer. “We’ll leave in the morning after I rest and refuel the plane.”
“Can’t you just radio for help, Ned?” Joe asked. “We’d really like to go. I’m sure you understand.”
“No, no, no. I cannot radio for rescue,” he mocked. “You think I want the paparazzi here? I will fly you back early tomorrow.”
He started methodically gathering up all the clothes and sheets and blankets off the floor. He looked at a few of the scattered books and growled. I started stacking the books, ashamed at having been a part of this group of narcissists. Of wanting to be a part of them.
“I see you’ve been enjoying my hospitality,” Ned said with mock serenity, looking at the mess of empty soup cans and liquor bottles.
“Dude, we didn’t know you lived here. I mean, we thought we were gonna die here. Do you not get it?” Cisco asked.
“You call me ‘dude’ again and you will die here,” Ned said, walking out the front with the blankets and clothes. Then he threw everything outside onto the dirt.
“Now get out,” he said. And we did.
He’s Like God with a Moustache
Joe spent what was left of the night giving us the back story on Ned Harrison. Not that anyone but me was listening. They were all too excited about leaving. Cisco’s tongue was so far down Milan’s ear canal I was positive she didn’t hear a word. And besides, now that we were going back to civilization, they could all resume their lives of careless self-involvement. Why would they care about Ned Harrison? He was nothing to them but an eccentric pilot.
Jonah had been extremely apologetic about leaving me in the rain. He said he tried hard to wake me up, but I was too drunk. And when he tried to lift me up, I apparently objected. Whatever. Bygones and all that sort of thing. He was stroking my hand as Joe narrated the story of Ned’s career.
Apparently, in 1982, Ned’s novel A Pair of Small Hands won the Pulitzer Prize. There was lots of controversy around the book because a graduate student (with whom Ned had supposedly had an affair) claimed that the novel was entirely based on her private diaries. Ned alleged that the girl had freely given him her journals to use as research. The suit was finally dismissed, and all the controversy helped the book become a bestseller. It was rumored the girl was paid to go away, and the book went on to become a major motion picture.
Joe said the film was disastrously bad. Like The Love Guru or Killers bad. We’re talking Ishtar, people. Millions of dollars lost, careers ruined. Considering it is one of my all-time favorite books, the fact that I had no idea that it had even been made into a movie spoke volumes about its sucking value. Ned blamed the di
rector and “Warren,” who played the lead, for misinterpreting his masterpiece and shutting him out of the process. Ned not only became a recluse afterward, he never allowed another one of his books to be turned into a film. So that explained why the Blood Thunder novels never made it to the big screen. It also explained why he was less than happy to discover Teen Hollywood camping out at his secret writing sanctuary.
“He made enough money writing books to buy an island?” Milan asked on a brief kissing hiatus. “Not that this place would be worth all that much.”
“Easily,” Joe answered.
“And he never does screenplays or adaptations?” Cisco looked shocked.
“No.”
“What a waste.”
“Is he married?” Eve asked.
“I don’t know, Eve,” Joe answered. “Haven’t we moved on?”
“I was just asking,” she protested. “Anyway, he’s old, old.”
“Well, it’s reassuring to know there’s an expiration date for your paramours,” Joe said.
“How much time does he spend here, do you know?” I asked. I was fascinated.
“No idea.”
“Is he working on anything now?”
“I don’t know, Francesca,” Joe said. “I’m not his publisher.”
“Well, you seem to know a lot about him.”
“Everybody knows what I just told you guys. You’re just too young to pay attention to anybody over the age of thirty,” he paused. “Except Eve.”
“Ha ha,” Eve mocked.
“Why don’t you ask him if you’re so interested?” Jonah asked me, giving me a playful push.
Was he jealous? He sounded a little jealous.
“Oh sure, he seems like such a welcoming guy,” I answered. “And besides, do you not get that he’s like a literary God? I mean, he’s a genius. I’d be too intimidated to talk to him.”
“He’s a talented man,” Joe agreed.
Cisco was rolling away with Milan behind a bush. Now that they were certain there wasn’t a plum role in it, they really couldn’t have cared less about Ned.
“Maybe I should be a novelist,” Chaz said stretching his arms like a cat. “All this up and close personal time with y’all has sort of zapped my interest in celebrity.” He yawned. “Not much to it really. I mean, without an audience you’re all about as interesting as Francesca.”
“Hey,” Jonah snapped. I liked his protective side.
Chaz snorted.
“Anyway,” Jonah said, squeezing my hand, “after tomorrow this will all be a bad memory. I’m ready for steak and a baked potato with butter and sour cream. What about you, Fran?”
“I’d like a big plate of spaghetti with parmesan cheese.”
“I gotta piss like a racehorse,” Chaz said by way of excusing himself and making it clear he wasn’t interested in our company.
The rest of us talked about what we were going to have for dinner the following night in an attempt to drown out Milan and Cisco’s mating soundtrack.
It wasn’t until daybreak that everyone finally drifted off to sleep. I couldn’t shut my head off. I was too anxious and exhausted to relax. I decided to go for a long walk by myself. Since we would be leaving in a few hours, I wanted to digest the whole experience. I didn’t know what would happen between Jonah and me, or between Cisco and Milan, or with Joe, Eve, Chaz, or even Ned. I didn’t know if my father would forgive me for fictitiously killing him. All I knew was that we were going home and from this point on my life would never be the same.
The Man behind the Paperback Curtain
By the time Ned came out of the house that morning we were aching to leave. We were all hungover, and nobody had slept well. Whatever affections we’d developed for one another over the last few days suddenly didn’t feel so binding. We were leaving, and our former intimacy had a stench of embarrassment about it.
Ned sauntered outside wearing a robe, carrying a mug of coffee, and smoking a cigar. He had curly gray hair on his chest.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” Chaz asked him anxiously.
Ned didn’t say anything. He studied our eager faces with a sinister smile on his face.
“Oh God, can I have one?” Milan asked.
“What, a cigar?”
She almost nodded her head right off her neck.
He took a slow, deliberate puff and exhaled.
“It’s a Gurkha, honey, $750 a smoke.”
“Just a puff? I’ll give you a BJ. That’s gotta be worth half?”
“Jesus, Milan!” Cisco yelled. “Knock it off.”
Ned shivered in disgust.
“When are we leaving, Ned?” Joe asked.
“We’re not,” Ned answered, exhaling again. He didn’t look like he was kidding. “The plane needs a little tuning up. Just a few days and we should be good to go.”
“A few days?” Joe balked. “Is this some kind of a joke?”
“No joke,” he said, bringing the coffee mug to his lips.
“I thought you hated us?” Milan asked. “I thought we were in your space?”
“I do and you are,” he answered. “But now that you’re here, I see no reason to dash off so quickly. And you should enjoy these last few days of anonymity. You have no idea the craziness your disappearance has caused. It’s all anybody talks about.”
“Really?” Milan squealed with delight.
“Mm-hmm,” he nodded. “Getting you all back to Tambo is going to be a media mess.”
“Then radio in, Ned,” Joe demanded.
“I can’t do that, Joe. I don’t want anyone here. It’s out of the question.”
Milan immediately began yanking her hair out.
“What is this about, Ned?” Joe asked. “Are you telling me you’re going to hold us hostage here because you’re press shy?”
“I’m not holding you hostage,” Ned shook his head. “Like I said, I need to work on the plane.”
“And?”
“And,” he continued, “I think I may have overlooked an opportunity here. I may have misjudged you. I’d like to get to know you all better. I’d like to observe your species out of its natural habitat. And what better way? I mean, there has got to be a reason you are here, right? I don’t believe in random events. I think you were sent to me.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Joe asked. “I’ll have you arrested, Ned. Where’s the goddamn plane?”
“You think I’m letting you fly my plane?” Ned asked Joe, laughing. “You’re responsible for all of this,” he said, looking at us and opening his arms. “When the FAA figures out what you’ve done, you’ll never see the inside of a cockpit again. And then not sending an ELT. And then letting the signal fire die out. And you were supposed to be the chaperone here? It won’t look good, Joe.”
“Who told you all of that?” Joe asked, his eyes darting around to each of us before landing on his son. “You little prick!”
“I didn’t say a word!” Jonah protested.
“Well, I wouldn’t believe anything he says,” Ned laughed. “All those pharmaceuticals addle the young brain.” He took a short puff on his cigar and exhaled.
“You told him about the drugs?” Jonah asked. I thought his face was going to explode, it was so red.
Joe shook his head.
“Well, somebody did. Who?” he asked, staring at Milan.
“Oh, please, like I care enough to remember anything about you.”
“Now, don’t fight,” Ned interrupted. “It won’t be too long. Just until I find my angle and get some more texture. I definitely think it will be worthwhile.”
Texture? What the hell was he talking about? There was no way. Now that we knew we could get off, we were desperate to leave. It was like when you have to pee and you can hold it for only so long as you know there isn’t a bathroom within sprinting distance.
“Look, I’m going to prepare a nice brunch.” Ned was heading back into the house. “You just relax. I picked some scallions from the garden, and I collect
ed a bunch of eggs,” he sang cheerfully.
“Jesus, he’s like Annie Wilkes in Misery,” I said loud enough for him to hear. “What’s he going to do to us?”
“You’re a reader and a writer, Francesca,” Ned laughed. “I like that. I think you also cook, right? Why don’t you help me prep?”
Everyone turned and glared at me.
“How does he know you write…and cook?” Eve asked me. Her accent was back. “What’s going on?”
I shrugged. “Don’t look at me.”
“Where are you from?” Ned asked Eve.
“La Jolla.”
“Ahh,” he chuckled into his mug.
“I demand to be taken off this island!” Eve ordered, in high Queen Elizabethan form.
“Sweetheart,” Ned said, “unless you want this image on the cover of the New York Times,” he said, pulling a crumpled piece of paper out of his robe pocket, “I don’t think you’re in a position to be making a lot of demands.”
He threw the paper at Eve. She scrambled to open it.
“Oh God!” she gasped, covering her mouth in horror.
It was the photograph I’d taken of Eve’s rash with my phone. She looked like a monster.
I instinctively reached in my back pocket and felt that my phone was gone. Oh my God. All of my “texts” to Jordan. And it wasn’t just their secrets I’d recorded—Milan being prostituted out by her father, Eve and Peter McArthy, Jonah’s drug addiction, Joe’s infidelity. It was all the horrible things I’d said about every one of them…about Jonah! Ned must have read everything. I was dead meat.
“Who are you?” Eve shouted at Ned. “How did you get this picture?”
Ned started humming “Saturday Woman,” Peter McArthy’s most popular song, as he headed back inside.
“You said I could trust you!” she screamed at Joe. “How could you?”
“Eve,” Joe said calmly. “I didn’t say a word. You have to calm down.”
“Liar!” she shouted. “I hate you!”
“Francesca?” Ned said. I jumped. “Would you care to help me in the kitchen?”
***
“Who’s Jordan?” Ned whispered, casually massaging my Droid between his thumb and forefinger as he ushered me into the cabin. There was a small printer on the kitchen table along with a Ziploc bag filled with electronic cords and plugs.
